


In the Company of Mice

by TheArchaeologist



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Brief mention of miscarriage and infant death, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, Doesn't realise he's pining Geralt, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, M/M, Pining, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Pre-Slash, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Swearing, They're dumb and can't communicate, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: When Jaskier accidentally drinks a potion intended for Geralt, the results on the humble bard are great.Actually, correction, the results are rathersmall.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 139
Kudos: 426





	1. Chapter 1

The inn is, in Geralt’s opinion, the exact right amount of dark and dank.

It provides plenty of shadowed corners to slink off to, musty and damp from the rotting of the tavern’s crumbling wooden walls. The cracks between the boards allow the chilled night breeze to float in, freshening the air for his nose less he is forced to sit and inhale the stink of farmers after a long day working the fields. 

The low lighting these places bring also gives him a natural, foreboding sense of ambiance, typically good for keeping anyway the curious drinkers and leaving only those with coin and a job willing to approach.

Minus a certain bard, who, for being as quick as a whip when it comes to whit and wordplay, can be several legs behind when reading the mood of a room.

Then again, it is possible that he can read a room as easy as everyone else, but simply doesn’t care to follow the unsaid rules of etiquette.

If Geralt had known letting Jaskier accompany him that day in Posada would lead him here, several years down the line, with a not-quite-personal-musician singing tales of his adventures hyped up and exaggerated to the point of near embarrassment, he may have been less encouraging for the Elves to let the bard go.

Maybe that is a little cruel. After all, egging the Elves to keep Jaskier would mean either death or a lifetime of servitude, and while he grates on Geralt’s nerves worse than a rash in the wrong place, it would hardly be fair to abandon an innocent party to an undoubtedly unpleasant fate.

Perhaps he should have just requested they released them at different times, instead, giving Geralt a nice, long head start with Roach, one that Jaskier could never hope to catch up with.

Is that better? He can’t tell. 

Of course, that would still mean leaving the human to wander around an area he was clearly unfamiliar with, alone and unarmed with next to no supplies or real sense of direction.

Damn that bard. He always makes things ten times more complicated.

Gulping down the last of the so-called ale, Geralt works his jaw, his gaze flicking around the crowded room from his brooding spot. Most of those quenching their thirst are farmhands stopping off before they stagger home, stable boys and pig keepers and shepherds, mingling along the bar and huddling around tables. They speak in low voices, and generally ignore Jaskier as he plays over by the fireplace, half of the unwilling audience refusing to even acknowledge the music he creates.

No high hopes for making more coin, then. 

A few other characters mill around, one or two whores looking for work that the innkeeper is turning a blind eye to, and, Geralt distinctly notes, a young boy darting back and forth across the room, returning mugs and pints to the bar to be cleaned with sticky fingers swiping anything not kept directly in sight. There is also a dog, the herding kind used to round up livestock, that dozes on the floor under its master’s chair, occasionally receiving the odd scrap or two of the unidentifiable meat that served as dinner.

It has been bathed in the river recently, or more likely went diving in before it could be ordered to stop. Geralt can smell it.

He has that issue with Roach, from time to time, in the height of summer when the weather is hot and stifling, and the lure of a cool pond is simply too much for the mare to resist. 

Generally, Geralt wouldn’t mind, after so long working together Roach has a pretty good sense of danger and knows when to avoid places or risk being eaten whole. His main gripe about the matter tends to be that she likes to go dipping while _he_ and _everything he owns_ is still on her back, and she doesn’t so much as wait for him to swing his leg over and hop off first.

Jaskier, the one time he was there to witness it, found it hilarious, the bastard.

The young boy starts inching his way over, and Geralt fixes him with a look that freezes the kid to the spot. While all their gear, including his swords, is safely shut away in their room for the night, his coin purse still sits at his waist, and it wouldn’t do to go losing all his cash when he has only just washed out the stench of manticore guts from behind his ears.

Swiping up his mug, Geralt holds it out to him.

“One more.”

With a swallow that bobs the boy’s forming apple in his throat, he takes the cup and darts away, running up to the innkeeper and presenting it to him. Geralt sees the innkeeper humming, and then glance his way.

Their arrival earlier the afternoon had been met with passive-aggressive comments and a general distrust, and if it were not for Jaskier’s usual flouncy language skills and a bit of bartering on the price of the room in exchange for music for most of the night, then it is unlikely they would have ended up with a bed at all. Geralt can’t help but wonder if that may have been the better option, because so far Jaskier has done little to raise the mood of the room, despite going through most of his song catalogue.

For as much as he can see his attempts failing, Jaskier ploughs on regardless, flitting about in an attempt to draw at least a little attention to himself. The elderly man he is currently dancing around doesn’t so much as blink at the dirty lyrics spewing from his mouth.

He will be coming to an end soon, with how poorly he is doing and how few tunes he has left.

“Here.” The boy says stiffly, returning the ale to him. 

Geralt hums in response, tossing a small coin the boy’s way for his troubles, and deliberately waiting until he has turned around and walked off to put it back on his belt.

They shall have to get moving early tomorrow morning. If he can pick up a job or two in the next town over, they can make up for some of their lost coin on tonight’s expenditures. He has heard a few whirlwind tales of a griffin taking sheep, and while the size of the beast may be wholly incorrect, there could be some truth in its sighting, in which case there will undoubtedly be work for him.

It would also get them out of settlements for a while, something Geralt will freely admit he is eager to do. Warm beds and hot food are nice enough, but this far up the Continent they start getting into Blaviken territory, and the general mistrust people have around him jumps up from low levels of fear to outright, potentially dangerous hatred. 

The last time he came wandering this way, something had been thrown at Roach aiming for him, and his mare had to spend four days on three legs before the injury healed enough to handle regular walking again.

“ _Phew_ ,” Jaskier pants dramatically, collapsing onto the bench opposite Geralt and dumping his lute beside him. He has a sheen of sweat decorating his forehead, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. “Tough crowd. I mean, would it kill these bastards to just politely clap at the end? They wouldn’t know a good song if it hit them in the dick.”

“Hm.”

Swiping up the ale, Jaskier knocks it down in one, slumping against the back of the bench as he does.

It took a few months, but Geralt quickly realised that it is in his own self-interest to have a drink ready for Jaskier when he finishes playing, less he is forced to listen to several minutes of bemoaning a dry and parched throat.

“I mean,” Licking his lips, Jaskier slams the now empty cup down onto the table, “Have I trodden in shit? Did Roach bite a hole in the back of my trousers again? They wouldn’t even look at me!”

“Have you considered that jigs and innuendos may not be the best way forward?”

“Well, I can tell _you_ weren’t listening, then.” Huffing, Jaskier crosses his arms. “I played everything under the sun, jigs and the dirty stuff, _yes_ , but also all the sad ones, the longing ones, the ones old men like to hear when they stare into the fire and start up the whole _back in my day_ speech. Honestly, I might as well have played to statues. I would’ve got more coin for it!”

“Hm.”

“Hm.” Jaskier parrots back with an eyeroll, clicking his tongue. He glances around, waving awkwardly when he meets the innkeeper’s stony glare. Under his breath and hidden by the nervous smile he plasters on his face, he mutters, “I don’t think our friend over there is going to be happy. We only got a knocked down price for the room because it was going to be made up in all the extra drinks people were buying.”

Getting to his feet, Geralt smirks down at Jaskier. “You’d better go pay the man, then.”

Squawking, Jaskier splutters, _“Me?”_

However, Geralt is already across the room and halfway up the stairs, intent on figuring out which side of the single bed is the most comfortable and claiming it for himself.

****

*****

The knock on the door comes just when the inn is turning quiet. 

The fireplace, still going strong with recently added logs, fills the room with a pleasant warmth, long shadows dancing across the floors. As Jaskier potters, moving their things about and messing with his shoes and lute bag, Geralt tunes his hearing to the drinkers in the tavern below, listening as they start staggering their way towards home or to the rooms they have rented for the night. Someone trips on the stairs, and they curse softly.

On the floor above him, miraculously, a man has fallen asleep between the lumpy mattresses and scratchy sheets. They snore noisily, and in quiet honesty, he can’t help but think the man a lucky bugger for being able drift unconscious so easily in such rough and ready lodgings. It is going to take Geralt at least half an hour to properly settle, and Jaskier most of the night.

At the knuckles on wood they both pause, Jaskier halfway undressed to his underclothes and Geralt sprawled on his (marginally more comfortable) side of the bed. With a light frown, he sits up, focusing on the sounds out in the corridor beyond while automatically taking note of where his closest weapon is. 

His swords are across the room on the desk, put away for the night where Jaskier can’t inevitably bumble into them in the dark while going to use the chamber pot, but at the soft sound of the innkeeper muttering something grumpily he feels his body relax, sliding back down onto his back.

The fire crackles and pops.

Tugging his clothes back into something more presentable, Jaskier fumbles with the buttons as he meanders across to the door.

“Who is it?” He calls, lacking Geralt’s heightened hearing.

“Me.” The innkeeper’s voice gruffs.

Cursing softly under his breath, Jaskier reaches for the bolt, sliding it free of the lock. “I thought I’d counted all the coin-”

Out in the corridor someone lets out a breath, a long, slow exhale of the lungs to calm fidgety nerves, tinted with a cusp of a voice that is very much not the innkeeper’s. The floorboards creak, someone shifting onto their heels in preparation to pounce.

Geralt has made a mistake.

Bolting upright, he barks, “Jaskier, _wait_ -”

He is cut off with a strangled yelp as Jaskier stumbles frantically away from the door, just missing getting whacked as it slams open and beats against the wall. Five men, weapons drawn and liquid courage stinking sweet on their lips, storm into the room, blocking Geralt from his blades as he rolls off the bed and forcing him back a pace, threatening steel in his ribs.

His armour leathers sit uselessly beside the fire. One of the men kicks them over.

Slowly turning his head, Geralt fixes the innkeeper, stood hovering in the doorway, with a hard, unwavering glare, his jaw rigid, his teeth aching from the force pressing them together. The innkeeper smirks, his face the very picture of a cat who has found fresh cream.

“Gentlemen,” Jaskier gulps, retreating to Geralt’s side, “Nice evening for it.”

“Oh, delightful.” Says the leader. He can be nothing else, going by the expensive haircut and sword Geralt is willing to bet is made of silver. He is accented differently to the locals, the type of voice that speaks of good schooling and parents who did not need for coin. 

Wandering over as if to inspect daisies, he absently aims his blade at Geralt’s chest, glancing him up and down.

Growling lowly, Geralt tilts his chin upwards, easily standing over the man. “What do you want?”

“Not much, at the moment.” The leader rests back on one leg, nonchalant and bored, though the men behind him look ready to swipe at any second, hounds waiting for the signal to chase the fox. “I’m just waiting.”

Jaskier shifts next to him, fingers reaching for one of the bedposts. “Waiting? If you wanted a concert, you could’ve just-”

“That sorry excuse for entertainment? Hardly!” One of the men snaps, a chain around his neck. When Geralt peers at it more closely, he realises it is a Witcher chain, though it lacks its medallion.

A prickle clambers up his spine, settling heavily in his chest over his sternum.

“Rude.” Jaskier tuts.

Ignoring the bard completely, the leader eyes Geralt over, as if examining a pig carcass in a butcher’s shop. “It shouldn’t take long now.”

Clicking his tongue pointedly, Jaskier probes, “ _What_ shouldn’t take long?”

“The potion we gave your dear Witcher friend, here.”

Geralt feels his body stiffen and physically forces it to relax, mentally running a quick check over himself. Everything seems as it should, there is no pain, no churning of the stomach indicating poison or lingering taste on his tongue from something sour and deadly. 

He is a trained and mutated man and knows well enough when he is about to consume something he shouldn’t. No amount of concealment can hide something like that from him.

The leader smiles, obviously enjoying Geralt’s face. “Worried, are we?”

“ _Good_.” One of the other men spits.

“You must be wondering what all this is about? This little party, just for you.”

“Oh please, _do_ enlighten us.” Jaskier snips, one hand travelling up to the buttons at the top of his undershirt, to do them up, Geralt thinks initially, only then to be corrected when they get pulled from their holes instead. A slight red flush tickles Jaskier’s cheeks.

The leader seems to notice as well, the smug expression dimming at the edges. As he talks, his eyes skip between the two of them. “My men saw what you did in Blaviken, the killing, the slaughter, cutting down humans as if they are nothing. The tales of your butchering have reached far, Witcher. It must be nice, knowing you can wield so much power over others, can knock innocent lives away like they’re nothing and then walk it off like a twisted ankle.”

Jaskier tilts backwards until he leans against the wall, breathing deeply.

“What,” Geralt snarls, pushing down the feeling steadily whispering up his neck, “Did you put in the ale?”

“Just a little something to even the odds.” One of the men grouse, his beard a mess of spit and dinner. “Figured we’d make things a bit fairer on our side.”

“Nothing deadly.” The one with the Witcher chain scoffs. “That wouldn’t be _fun_.”

With a weak cough, Jaskier blinks slowly, his brows furrowing as if he is having trouble seeing.

“For once, you’ll know what it feels like to be us, Witcher.” A man stood between Geralt and his swords adds in, confidence weeping from every pore. “What it feels like to be insignificant and _small_.”

The leader is silent, watching Jaskier.

A second later, he hisses, “ _Shit_.”

Geralt agrees, because it would take an idiot to not realise what is going on. They spiked the last ale he ordered, which wasn’t for him at all, but for a bard who knocked it back and wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the concoction and the normal retched taste.

Adjusting his weight between his feet, the leader glances back at Geralt, the sword tipping forward to push against his chest in an open threat. He swallows, hard, and underneath all the bravado the faintest twitch of fear starts to ebb in.

“G-Geralt…” Jaskier mutters weakly.

“Stay _there_.” The leader orders, trying to pin him with a stare. “Don’t _fucking_ move.”

“What did you put in the ale?” Geralt repeats, slowly, allowing every ounce of his anger to seep through. “Answer me.”

Stepping forward, the man with the beard jeers, “You’re not in the position to be making the orders around here. Why don’t-” He stammers off at the frantic hand signal of the leader, face pinching. _“What?”_

“You idiots!” The leader snaps, his eyes fixed solely on Geralt as his breathing hardens. “You utter _shit stains_ -”

“What’s wrong?” The innkeeper calls from the doorway.

Wilting further down the wall, Jaskier whispers, “Oh crumbs…”

“You gave the potion to the bard! The fucking bard!”

A deep rumble in his throat, Geralt steps forward, grabbing the sword in his bare hand. The edges, sharpened recently, cut into his palm, staining the metal red. Blanking, the leader stumbles over several unintelligible words, hurrying back half an inch.

“ _What_ potion?”

The other men tighten their stances, glancing between each other. The innkeeper narrows his eyes, working his jaw and standing straight.

“We can take him.” The bearded man states, nodding to himself. “It’s five against one. We can take him.”

The man with the Witcher chain nods, face hardening. “The Butcher must pay for Blaviken.”

A second later, they pounce on him like starved dogs on giblets.

If it were not for the fact that Geralt is a Witcher, they may have stood a chance.

The bearded man is right, after all, five on one is an advantage in most situations. Simply ask any alcoholic out on the streets, more often than not they wake at the crack of dawn in the back alleys and side streets, broken, bruised, their coin gone and the valuables missing. Theoretically, Geralt is even more vulnerable, without a weapon and dressed only in his night gear.

However, these men are also correct on something else.

They should have drugged him.

Geralt never would have made it far as a Witcher if he didn’t know how to _fight._

Years of training and honed muscle allow him to duck and dodge the uncoordinated attacks, the men dumping shoulders as they try and crowd him and sending swords veering miles off their target. They have never fought as a group before, that much is clear, and any sense of hierarchy goes flying out the window as soon as they get the scent of potential blood. 

They hit themselves, each other, nicking exposed arms and thinly clothed legs, making it all the easier for Geralt to weave between them, kicking and tipping, slamming his heel into stomachs and legs and chests.

A flash of pain springs from a lucky swipe at his arm, and instantly he bustles into the bearded man’s personal space, clocking him in the jaw and sending cracked teeth soaring, the sword tumbling from his hand.

Geralt grabs it, and immediately starts clashing blades, pushing the men back, away, widening their circle around him until he has a good portion of the room claimed as his. Those untrained, and that is as least three of them, snap their eyes between him and each other, their holds on their grips sloppy and blades waving at wildly panicked angles.

Anger and misinformed revenge can cloud many a person’s eye. These men had no idea what they were in for.

“Woah!” Jaskier stumbles vaguely in his direction, only just missing losing a limb to a wide swing from the leader. His feet catch, and with a squeak that would almost be amusing in any other situation, he collapses to the floor, blinking hazily up at the looming man above him.

Geralt flies, and less than a breath later his claimed sword is embedded deep in the leader’s abdomen, blood spewing from between his lips.

“Shit!”

“You motherfucking _monster!”_

“Ger’lt? What’s-”

“Jaskier, _up!”_ Grabbing his arm, Geralt drags Jaskier to his feet, holding him steady when his knees go to buckle.

The singing of metal through the air alerts him to the sword arching towards their heads and he twists, slicing, slashing, sending the arm back the way it came removed from the body. Crimson spews freely, baptising Geralt’s face in a hot splatter, and screaming fills the room, the man stumbling back and uselessly grappling at his shoulder. 

Growling, Geralt snags the Witcher’s chain from around the man’s neck, finding little sympathy as he collapses to the floor with a thud, writhing there like a trodden worm. He stuffs the chain into a pocket.

Jaskier paws uselessly at his hand, mumbling something slurred and confused.

The innkeeper runs.

Breathing heavily, the bearded man gapes at the steady flow of blood seeping across the floor, his jaw locked into a fierce, squeezing vice. He drags his eyes up towards Geralt, a fire burning furious within them.

“Bastard!” He yells, his mouth smeared red and hands gripping his fallen leader’s sword. “I’ll-”

He dies with a steel through his beard, suffocating on his own blood.

Just two left.

With an odd little whimper, Jaskier’s weight goes tenfold as his knees sag, threatening to drag them both down and into a position of vulnerability. Geralt struggles to hold his balance, heaving the bard back upright and clenching his fist tight on Jaskier’s clothes.

They can’t afford him to collapse, not yet, not while there are still sharp edges and frenzied eyes in their direction.

“Damnit, Jaskier.” He grits, voice low and only just tinting on desperate. “ _Help me here.”_

Across the hallway there is shouting, high, panicked, scared, riled, a forming mob Geralt knows from experience is threatening to form. Their timescale to escape is rapidly narrowing, decreasing with every new head turning their way, their thoughts clouded with shock and hatred, and unless he does something now they are going to end up pinned in a very small room with only the single door and window as an exit.

Given Jaskier’s condition, Geralt is unconvinced a fall from the second floor would do him any good.

Coughing weakly, Jaskier mutters a dazed, “Tryin’.”

Opposite, engulfed from the growing stench of gore and rooted to the spot, the final two men stare dumbly, like chickens watching the preparation of a roast. They make no attempt to lunge or seek justice for their fallen comrades, holding their swords gawkishly in front of them, pulses hammering hard.

Fixing them with a thunderous scowl, Geralt manhandles Jaskier towards the desk and the fire, shoving his precious lute case and shoes into his arms. One of the shoes drops in his uncoordinated grip, landing in the steadily forming puddle spreading underfoot with a splash, but Jaskier at least has the presence of mind to awkwardly sling his lute over his back.

Geralt swipes the rest of their bags and his armour, flinging them over his shoulder while swapping the stolen sword for his own, unsheathing the steel.

Sneering at the two remaining men, he shoves Jaskier in the direction of the door.

Instantly the men begin spluttering, a torn mix of the want to stay and fight on principle and the longing to bolt in the hopes of saving their skins flashing across their sweat and grime stained faces.

“H-Hey, stay there-”

“Don’t move, or-”

“Get out our way or you’ll end up like them.” Geralt grunts plainly, ignoring their wavering blades. The heated voices are steadily growing throughout the inn, rattling between the flimsy walls. “Choose.”

They do, hesitant and flinching, and moments later they lay limp, lifeless, on the tacky floorboards, their once thudding hearts still as their corpses cool.

Hauling Jaskier out the room, they make it to the top of the stares before the innkeeper’s voice yells, “Witcher! Don’t you _dare_ try to flee, you son of a whore!”

Something hits him, right on the back of the head, and whether it is from stress, the fight, or the fact they threw a fucking _boot scraper_ at his skull, he flinches. Jeers rise up, cocky and taunting, and a quick glance tells him that they have an audience of the other inn residents, watching their retreat with dark, twisted expressions.

Geralt pushes them onwards down the stairs, blocking out the shrieks and curses despite his hearing picking out every single one. Jaskier staggers on every step, as coordinated as a new-born foal and promising to fall headfirst, but Geralt keeps him secure, momentarily uncaring about bruised ankles and grace, focusing solely on getting them out.

The tavern staff stare at him with pale faces, hands over their mouths.

Outside, word is beginning to spread, and Geralt beelines towards Roach in her stable, listening as the whispered words of the forming crowd begin to morph into things of horror, venom, a growing danger of retaliation.

“Murderer!” Someone yells as he flings their things onto Roach’s back. A rock thuds against the open stable door. 

“Fucking shithead!” A woman screams from the safety of her bedroom window as he climbs onto the saddle. An old pot smashes on the dirt path.

“You’ll pay for this!” A man promises as he lugs Jaskier up in front of him, holding him tight against his chest and kicking Roach into moving.

Things fly at them, people chucking whatever they have at hand and cheering cruelly whenever something collides with his chest and back. A projectile strikes Roach and she whinnies, spooked and unhappy, her ears back and tail whipping. However, she proves her worth by allowing Geralt to steer, aiming them for the nearest edge of town. 

The voices chase them, loud in the otherwise quiet night air.

With encouragement on his lips and a squeeze from his heels, they bolt, people scrambling out their way as they charge down the street and burst from the line of buildings. The trees rush to greet them, gnarled wood and dense brush, and they barge through without stopping, twigs and leaves hitting Geralt’s face and arms as he forces them off the beaten tracks, deep into the undergrowth where tracking is hard and ambush harder.

They ride until the sounds of the town vanish from his ears and Roach’s panting grows from desperate to wearing. With a commanding hum, Geralt pulls them to halt in a narrow clearing, taking a moment to peer over his shoulder and glare out into the dark, listening intently.

Satisfied for the moment, he slides from the saddle, going to take Roach’s reigns to lead her to a nearby tree only to leap for Jaskier not a second later, the bard capsizing sideways like a felled tree. Together, the slide down into the dirt, Geralt slipping off the lute and placing it to one side where Roach won’t accidentally trample it.

Moonlight trickles through the overhead branches, a stark, gleaming white, and on any other night Geralt would be listening to Jaskier wax lyrics over it, fiddling away at his tunes and humming under his breath. However, instead of warm fires, light conversation, and bubbling pots of stew, he is catching Jaskier’s head as it lolls, angling it towards the pale beams in search of focus in his eyes.

“Jaskier. _Jaskier_ , look at me.” He commands, but no attempt is made to connect their gazes. He shakes Jaskier’s shoulders once, hard. “Talk to me. What’s going on? How do you feel?”

“Ger…” His voice barely there, lost in the depths of his confusion, Jaskier sways, and Geralt grapples for the front of his undershirt to hold him still.

“I need to know what kind of potion you were given.” Talking slow and steady, as if he were coercing a drunkard back to his bed, Geralt pushes, ““Do you think you’re going to be sick? Does your head hurt, or-”

Blue eyes begin to roll back.

“Hey, _hey_ , don’t.” Shaking him again, Geralt’s demands, fiercely, desperately, “Jaskier, _don’t_ -”

He goes unheard, and with a weak, failing groan, Jaskier tips backwards, his body collapsing boneless and loose. His arms hang limp at his sides, hands becoming lost in the soil and leaves, and his head snaps back on his neck with enough unconscious force to make Geralt wince. 

The colour of his skin drains, pale moonlight meeting an even paler face, dipping away so dramatically that Geralt blinks, believing something is wrong with his own vision.

He thinks so again when, promptly, without farce or ceremony, Jaskier very literally sinks out of sight, leaving only empty clothes and a small huff of air that tickles against Geralt’s cheeks.

The clearing goes very, very still. 

Sound drips away, scents vanish, tastes on his tongue evaporate, and his eyes briefly hide away as he blinks several times, not a muscle moving on his face.

Geralt stares.

Roach breaks the silence, snorting as she dances unhappily on her feet, still a wound coil from their flee and ready to make a fuss about it. As she shakes her head in protest, the reigns slap against her neck, shockingly loud in his ear.

Geralt continues staring, his mouth dry.

Somewhere, out in the night and unbothered by their drama, an owl glides, its soft feathers brushing the breeze. It floats, near noiseless, over the bushes and the brush, searching for mice and morsels to feast upon in the dark. A small thing scampers, spooked by the presence of a predator, and moments later gets silenced by sharp talons and piercing eyes.

Geralt slowly drags his gaze over the clothes beneath his fingers, hanging loosely, empty, devoid of the once vibrant life within them.

The lute rests to one side, its strings hushed. 

His mouth moves, just slightly, as if caught halfway between a name or a curse. His voice doesn’t breach his lips, barely exhaling air, and just as silently as they opened, they close, pinching, pursing, hardening with the tiniest of jitters into something pressed and irate.

Fuck.

Letting the shirt fall from his grip, Geralt slowly, stiffly, leans back on his heels, simply sitting there on the chilled, lightly damp soil. His shoulders feel stuck in their sockets, as if thick rope were wrapped around them, holding and squeezing and locking him into place, and his breathing turns heavy, dragged, like a plough horse after completing a field. His eyes remain dry, though, as he gazes down at the jumble of fabric crumpled on the woodland floor.

Shit.

_Fuck._

Jaskier’s scent lingers, perfumes, sweet oils, and sweat from his performance earlier this evening, and beneath it all the faintest whiff of the soap he would use to scrub the forest grime from his skin. Geralt used to hate it when they first began walking together, but over time it grew on him, for as much as it tickled his nose.

There is also a touch of apple, just underlining it all, from the fruit he snagged from the tree in someone’s garden two days ago. The juices had spilled down his chin and onto his garments, and he had complained noisily for an hour when it attracted bees and wasps.

Allowing his lungs to inhale a long, steady, breath of midnight air, Geralt forces his eyes shut, tilting his head skywards as his hands fall onto his lap. He holds it, some back part of his brain counting so his mind doesn’t have to, before releasing it, his lungs deflating as something else seeps into his body, both frightfully cold and much too warm at the same time.

Roach nickers, carefully treading over to nudge him.

He pets her gently, allowing her to blow heat against his cheek. 

When her jaw begins to slick wet, he realises his palm is still bleeding from grabbing the leader’s blade, along with the small cut on his arm. Geralt pulls away.

“Better sort those out.” Forcing his legs under him, he swallows as Roach eyes him over, and, in a rare gesture from the temperamental mare, she allows her head to be cradled in his arms. “Sorry you had to lose your bed.”

She snorts, ears twisting, and backs away when she deems the right amount of holding has been reached.

Sighing, his shoulder’s sagged, Geralt deliberately turns his back to the clothes and the lute, gazing around the small clearing they have found themselves in. Chewing lightly at his tongue, he starts forward, his bare feet a reminder that he is still in his nightclothes.

There is little point changing. He is grubby anyway, and is, apparently, camping overnight instead of bedding in a room. Much needs to be done before he can lay out his bedroll, collapse into it, and close his eyes to the world, as much as he may want nothing else at the moment.

Something makes a small noise behind him, and he glances at Roach, who swishes her tail.

“Give me a minute, then we’ll sort you out.”

She nickers, and Geralt begins to kick away leaves and twigs, clearing a space to build a fire.

The noise happens again, this time identifying itself as material moving against material, and Geralt turns, eyes naturally drawn towards it.

Jaskier’s clothes shift.

He freezes.

“The fuck?”

Beneath the abandoned undershirt, something wiggles, its body small and pushing against the garment. For a moment, Geralt wonders if a rat has already wandered in, searching for fleshy scraps to dine upon.

Stepping forward, Geralt crouches down, an exhausted but baffled frown scrunching his brow.

“Sweet Melitele’s _tits_ , get me outta here!”

He blinks, breath hitching, fingers twitching at his sides. Carefully, forcing every ounce of control he has into his voice, he calls out, quietly, “Jaskier?”

“Hello, anybody out there?” A frustrated and mildly panicked voice replies, though it is muffled by layers of fabric. “Where the fuck am I?”

Slowly reaching forward, Geralt carefully pinches the collar of the shirt between his forefinger and thumb. After a second’s hesitation, he pulls it back, letting the shining moonlight reveal what struggles underneath.

A very tiny, very naked Jaskier puffs out a sigh of relief, hair askew from being buried under his own clothing and face mildly flushed. He staggers on his feet, setting his hands on his hips and blinking owlishly around him before catching sight of Geralt, peering up and up and _up._

His jaw drops.

“What the ever-loving _fuck?”_

Geralt swallows. “Jaskier-”

“No, no, what the fuck? What _the fuck?_ Geralt, what’s going on? Why are you huge? Why was I…” He trails off, eyes darting towards the mare beside them. “Holy _shit_ , is that _Roach?_ Wait, no, hang on, hang on a stupid fucking second…” Twisting in a circle, Jaskier rapidly pales for a second time. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no, this better not be what I think it is. Geralt, tell me I knocked my head or something, that this is all-”

“You’re _alive.”_

“Yes! I am very much alive! I’ve also lost several feet and find myself standing buck naked in the middle of a forest!”

Geralt sighs softly, and then runs a critical eye over the bard. “Are you hurt?”

Mouth snapping shut, Jaskier blinks up at him, then glances down at himself, as if finally realising he should probably pay some attention to his body. He turns his hands over, gazing at them, marvelling at his shrunken dimensions.

After a moment, he hums, “No, I don’t think so.”

Nodding, Gerant grunts, “Good.”

“I could do with a blanket, though.” Wrapping his arms around himself, he kicks half-heartedly at the mess of clothing under his feet. “It’s kinda nippy down here. What’s going on, Geralt? Why am I small?”

Humming, Geralt leans back, narrowing his eyes in thought. “What do you remember?”

“Um, we were at the inn…” Jaskier starts slowly, eyeing the edge of his undershirt. “We were…Heading to bed, I think, and someone came to the door.”

“Yes, they were after me, for what happened at Blaviken.” Rising to his feet, Geralt turns towards Roach, reaching for and digging through the bags still thrown haphazardly over her back. “The last ale I ordered, they put something into it, a potion, thinking it’d give them an advantage.”

“Well, it’d have certainly done that! Look at me! I’ve seen moths more threatening!”

Locating the small handkerchief given to Jaskier by an admirer two towns over, a small thing that will undoubtedly come back to bite him in the arse at some later point, Geralt returns to Jaskier side and holds it out.

The flimsy, silk material practically swamps him, pooling around Jaskier’s feet as he wraps it around his body like a cloak. It was clearly designed as a fashion statement rather than anything else, embroidered with bluebells and far too delicate for blowing allergy sniffles into, but it is the best Geralt can do for the moment. Unless Jaskier would prefer the greasy, bloody, gut-stained rag he uses to get the worst off his swords after a job, then this is all he can offer, and Jaskier huddles beneath it in an attempt to conserve heat.

As he fiddles to get the handkerchief more secure around himself, tying knots to hold it in place so he is not as blatantly exposed, Gerant skims his eyes over him, taking in his new, shortened appearance.

Jaskier stands just about half the length of Geralt’s hand, fingers included, perfectly sized down with everything in proportion. His heartbeat, from what Geralt can make out, is running at the same, healthy speed it did before, though it does now register fainter to his ear, and there is not a trace of the earlier grogginess and confusion.

“So,” Jaskier starts, crossing his arms under the handkerchief, “I don’t suppose you have a lovely-tasting potion in that bag of tricks of yours which makes things grow to their normal size again, per chance?”

“Hm.”

Although he is expecting that answer, Jaskier still sags. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

“This is clearly the work of a Mage, a powerful one at that. I doubt we’ll be able to fix this without enlisting the help of another magic user.”

“You, um, don’t think this is permanent, do you?”

Geralt cocks his head, taking in the way Jaskier fiddles with one of the knots, tightening it unnecessarily. “It’s hard to say. The magic I know is limited, Jaskier, I’m no expert.”

Nodding, Jaskier pulls a smile onto his face. “Right, so, what next?”

“We find a Sorceress, or a Witch, or a Mage, whatever comes first.” He shrugs. “We’ll have to ask around, maybe Yennefer is-”

“Nope, no, absolutely not!”

Unimpressed, Geralt admonishes, “ _Jaskier.”_

“If you think I’m going to go get poked, prodded, and, more importantly, _bullied_ by that bitch of a Witch, you have another thing coming!” Scowling up at him, Jaskier adds, “Need I remind you that while you’re both happy to make like rabbits, she held a dagger to a part of my body I would very much like to keep and whacked the shit out of me?”

“I’m mostly certain she wouldn’t do that now-”

“ _Mostly_ -”

“I doubt she’ll have a magnifying glass strong enough anyway, to hold daggers to _bits you would very much like to keep_.” He smirks, getting to his feet as Jaskier makes several unflattering spluttering noises.

“Oh, you’re a dead man, Geralt of Rivia! Just watch, I’m gonna…I’ll…” He glances around, obviously searching for some kind of revenge he can do in his current situation. “I’ll _sing_ , right in your ear, all night long!”

Turning his back to him, Geralt begins unloading Roach, who whickers as if to say, _yes, thank you for remembering I’m still here._

“Do that, and I’ll trap you in a cup.”

Tutting, Jaskier starts wandering around on his own clothes, dragging the extra material of the handkerchief behind him. “You’ll still be able to hear me in a cup, Geralt, I know your hearing, and I’m not going to Yennefer.”

He grunts as he offloads his armour, laying it out carefully. “So, you’ll fix this how?”

“I’ll…” Jaskier starts, and then pauses, humming in thought.

Leaving him to it, Geralt ducks behind the treeline, gathering up sticks and timbre for a fire. They are lucky, travelling two days behind the rains which seem to be sweeping over the Continent, meaning the ground is dryer than it could have been and plenty of flame fodder has been dislodged from the overhead branches.

As soon as he steps back into the clearing, Jaskier, now sat with the collar of his own undershirt over his legs, immediately pipes up, “We could ask around-”

“We’ll have to avoid the immediate towns.” Geralt interrupts swiftly, kneeling and gathering the wood together. “Word will travel quickly, and I didn’t exactly leave those men in one piece.”

Jaskier groans into his hands. “All that work to get rid of your butchering title. It’ll take me years to right this one.”

“Lucky me.”

“Damn right! I’d like to see any other Witcher with their own reputation fixer!”

The thought makes Geralt snort, leaning back as the wood bursts into flames with a quick sign. The promise of warmth makes Roach huff at him, and he gets up to relieve her of the saddle.

“Hey, we’re not that far from Oxenfurt, right?”

“A few days, depending on how fast we ride.”

“Then let’s go there. Several of the professors were Mages, a few Witches and Wizards as well. I’m sure some coin and their reputable position would mean they’d be more than happy to lend a hand with,” He indicates at himself, “ _This_.”

“ _My_ coin, you mean.”

Jaskier tuts at him. “I’m not going to go get experimented on by some crazy nobody who lives out in the middle of the woods!”

“Yennefer isn’t-”

“She is one stone’s throw away from being exactly that, and _you know it_. Now…” Getting to his feet, Jaskier sends a hard glare in his direction, muted slightly by the fact that, at the moment, he is as threatening as an irate bumblebee. “Where am I going to sleep? Because I’m not letting myself get squished by your boulder of an arse.”

Silently, Geralt and Roach share a look, one, he thinks, they both understand.

****

*****

Despite Geralt having lived a long life and Jaskier studying here, Geralt has never, properly, explored the city of Oxenfurt.

He has popped in on occasion, whenever something big and ugly decides to terrorise the citizens from their daily routine, however between dodging to keep his head and wiping monster guts from his blade, there is rarely time for sightseeing. The locals take offense when you stride around wearing innards, anyway.

Perched on his shoulder, hidden behind the fold of his leather armour, Jaskier steers him around, twittering continuously like a baby bird when its parents return with grubs to the nest. Initially Geralt was willing to let him run his mouth, seeing as it kept them from getting lost in the maze of streets and roads, however as he continues to trudge along, Roach following behind, he is beginning to wonder if this is less about finding their way and more a guided tour of all Jaskier’s favourite hot spots.

“Oh, over there’s the tavern we used to drink in!” He points out, leaning over and nearly toppling off Geralt’s shoulder. “I threw up in that alleyway more times than I could count!”

“Lovely.”

It took them three days’ worth of hard travel to reach the city, the process sped up somewhat by Jaskier hitching a lift rather than walking. 

At first, he sat on the pommel of the saddle, Geralt inched back so he didn’t overcrowd the bard. This worked out well, until a pheasant decided to scamper across the road under Roach’s feet, spooking her enough to rear. Jaskier was sent flying, Geralt only catching him through reflexes and chance alone, and after that he took a permanent residence on Geralt’s shoulder, legs swinging and chatting loudly in his ear.

For all his lungs have shrunk, it certainly doesn’t impede the bard’s ability to _talk._

The evenings camping went very much the way they do when Geralt is alone, seeing as Jaskier is too small to offer much help. They did solve the bed problem, though, with Jaskier tucking up in one of their bags where no mouse, rat, or other night creature could slink in and steal him away.

“After everything I’ve been put through, I’m not letting literal _vermin_ be the death of me!”

Roach, Geralt thinks, is bemused by Jaskier. She keeps trying to investigate him, all curious ears and pleasant whinnies, sparking shrieks and curses from Jaskier which get her backing away again.

Quietly, he feels sorry for his poor mare, who is just trying to be friendly to the bard she is slowly warming to. However, considering her reputation and the fact that she could easily stomp, munch, or kick Jaskier death, even unintentionally, Geralt has been trying to keep the pair separated, if not by distance then at least with his own body.

It wouldn’t do to have a horse which murders innocents, after all.

That is his reputation.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Look over there.”

“Are we going to find this Mage or not? Roach needs rest, and-”

“No, Geralt, _look_.”

Sighing, his eyes briefly finding the clouds, Geralt tilts his head in the relevant direction, raising a slow eyebrow up at the toy shop that greets him. Various wooden and sewn objects sit strewn about its display window, colourful and intended to catch the sights of excitable children passing by.

“What, exactly, am I meant to be looking at?”

“Geralt, the _clothes_.”

Propped up in the corner of the window, slightly slumped from how long it has been there, a doll leans crooked, dressed in a red shirt, brown trousers with a twined string belt, and a dark green cloak. There are no shoes, he notes.

He also notes their size, which matches a certain someone else.

Clothing Jaskier has been a bit of a fiasco.

The handkerchief gifted to him by the _fine lady_ lasted no more than to the following morning before getting torn into uselessness, catching on something and shredding easily. Jaskier briefly mourned for his token of adultery however was quick to dump it after spending the night shivering under the thin fabric, even when he was curled near the fire.

His current outfit came from a swiped cloth that had been drying on someone’s washing line, a torn hole in the middle creating an awkward poncho that swims around Jaskier’s feet and leaves him tripping constantly.

It is the best they can do, given the circumstances.

“They’re designed for toys, Jaskier, they aren’t proper clothes.”

“But they’d _fit_ , and it’s not like this is keeping me any warmer.”

Sighing again, Geralt glances at Roach, who huffs hot air in his face as if to say, _go on, big, scary Witcher, go buy your toy._

He grunts.

“I’ll pay you back once I can.” Jaskier waves off, getting to his feet carefully and using Geralt’s hair as a support. “Unless you _want_ me to flash everyone every time the wind-”

Geralt ties his horse and enters the shop.

The bell above the door chimes, and inside they are greeted with utter mayhem.

“Lucie, Lucie, get back here!” A man shouts, bags under his eyes and lines littering his face.

Swarming around him like frenzied ants, a whole gaggle of children of various ages dance and tug and pull and clamber about, blatantly ignoring the adult trying to herd them out the door. One of the younger ones pauses to gaze up at Geralt, nose snotty as he gapes, but the others pay them no heed at all, too enraptured by the goods on offer. Over behind a counter, another man, likely the shopkeeper, with a grey, fuzzy moustache and slowly receding hairline, watches the frenzy with a pinched face.

“Sweet Melitele…” Jaskier mutters, standing just behind his ear where he can’t be seen and peeking around.

Geralt is inclined to agree.

When they are not being snatched by wide-eyed children, the multiple shelves circling the walls of the shop are filled with toys, housing everything from carved boats and miniature swords to leather balls and string rackets. In some areas the playthings are crowded, grouped together and piled up, speaking of a poor custom as of late and idle hands making for an abundance of stock.

The lighting is low, thanks to the singular and relatively small display window, and a single candle lantern hangs from the ceiling. With the mass of children taking up most of the space in the room, Geralt finds himself standing stiffly beside the door, squinting at an intricately painted wooden white wolf nearby.

Said white wolf then gets snagged by a chubby hand and shoved into a mouth.

“Jemima, spit that out, come on!” Snatching a young girl’s hand and tossing the wolf away carelessly, the father, because the poor man can be nothing else, takes a step determinedly towards the door, taking no notice of Geralt and consequently slamming full force into the shoulder with Jaskier.

“ _Woah!”_ The bard squeaks.

Jerking to the side, Geralt growls, feeling Jaskier tug at his hair as all the children instantly burst into delighted laughter, filling the relatively small room with piercing noise.

“Oh, shit!” The father stammers.

“Shit!” Jemima parrots.

“Hm.” Geralt rumbles, narrowing his eyes.

“Come along, children, time to go.” Ducking his head down, the father heaves his hoard out the door to a chorus of complaints and tantrums, letting it slam shut behind them without caring for how it rattles the frame.

“Geralt.” Jaskier whispers, but before Geralt can turn and answer the shopkeeper meets his eyes and exhales wearily.

“Took them long enough. Every single week they come in and terrorise my poor wares. If it were not for the fact that he is the son of the man I pay rent to, they’d be banned.”

“Hm.”

More insistently, Jaskier calls, “ _Geralt_.”

“So, what can I get you, good sir?” The shopkeeper smiles in Geralt’s direction, making his moustache stretch on his upper lip, only for it to then dim when he clocks the medallion and realises exactly who and what he is looking at. “What are you doing in here, Witcher? We don’t want any of your monsters and magic here.”

Geralt speaks through his teeth. “I wanted to ask. About the doll.”

“The doll? We have a mighty few dolls here, Witcher. You’ll need to be specific.”

“In the window.”

Nodding, the shopkeeper walks around his counter. “Let me have a look. I need to rearrange that display, actually, this one’s been out for much too long.”

_“Geralt!”_

Blinking, Geralt slightly twists his head towards Jaskier as the shopkeeper crosses the room, glancing out the corner of his eye.

The bard is not there.

His jaw suddenly tight in his mouth, pressing his teeth together hard, Geralt checks on the shopkeeper, finding him leaning over his window display. Confident the man will be distracted searching for the doll for several moments, going by the way he crinkles his eyes in a squint that speaks of a poor near-sightedness and age, Geralt shifts on his heel and subtly turns.

“Jaskier?” He murmurs, barely moving his lips and voice as soft as he can make it.

“Down here!” Frantically waving, Jaskier reveals himself behind Geralt’s heel.

The cloth poncho is grubby where it had been fairly clean before, and a dark splodge of a bruise is gradually forming on his left arm, just below his elbow. His hair is ruffled, speaking of a fall Geralt failed to notice, and he glares something fierce up at him the second their gazes meet. It is probably the darkest expression Geralt has ever seen on him.

Silent, he glances over to the shopkeeper again, then back down to Jaskier.

It was agreed instantly that the entire shrinkage situation should be kept between themselves. Old wives’ tales are common, especially in some of the more rural communities, and Geralt has heard several floating about on non-existent pixies and all the healing properties their ground bones are said to offer. These stories are complete fiction, likely stemming from a truth long ago but getting verbally passed down through the generations, bastardising until it became utter nonsense.

However, he is currently travelling with someone who looks very much like a pixie, and for all that he is sure he can keep Jaskier out of harm’s way, it is still not worth taking any risks.

“I got thrown off!” Jaskier hisses, his voice low enough to go unnoticed by the shopkeeper (assisted by smaller lungs) but still within Geralt’s hearing range. “Get me up before I’m trampled!”

“Is it this one?” The shopkeeper asks suddenly, holding up the doll in question. Geralt immediately straightens, moving awkwardly on his feet to keep himself in position in front of Jaskier. If the shopkeeper notices the strange sidestep, he doesn’t mention it. “I’m afraid it’s faded a little in the sun, a poor judgement on my part, I’m sorry to say.”

“It’s fine.”

“We have others similar.” Striding over towards him, the shopkeeper indicates to the shelves with a salesman’s ease. “Take some of these, for instance.”

Ignoring everything coming out the man’s mouth but nodding along regardless, something he has practice with thanks to Jaskier, Geralt makes sure to keep their gazes connected, listening intently to bare feet on the floorboards as Jaskier ducks to stay hidden. 

Taking care not to kick him, Geralt gradually lifts one foot to tap at the top of his boot. He hears a huff, then a curse, then the sound of someone struggling to jump, tiny hands trying to reach higher than they can.

Oblivious, the shopkeeper continues talking, picking up different dolls and explaining the clothes they wear and what they represent. This is likely a spiel he has mastered from years of selling to distant aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins, who have no idea what to buy their youngest members of the family.

One particular doll gets shoved in his face, a parody of Nilfgaardian solider, going by the dark fabrics making up the armour and humorous facial expression.

“These have proven popular as of late, Witcher.” The shopkeeper continues merrily. “The young folk around here like a good political comedy. Half the ones that go are brought by students looking for a laugh. If it’s teenage kin you’re buying for, then I have to recommend. Then of course, over here-” Taking Geralt’s arm, the shopkeeper goes to whisk him towards another set of toys, a move which would leave Jaskier exposed.

Without thinking, Geralt interrupts with the first thing that slides into his head.

“It’s not.”

The shopkeeper pauses. “Not? Not what?”

Within seconds, Gerlat becomes vividly, acutely aware of all the reasons why he prefers to let Jaskier handle smooth lies and flouncy talk. He is a Witcher, he deals with selkiemore guts and poor coin, direct words and simple answers is what he is trained in. While he can turn a crowd and fluster Kings when he needs to, that, more often than not, holds only truths on his tongue. Wiggling his way out of lies is another matter entirely.

Witchers are practically bred on their bluntness.

“Kin.” He says awkwardly. “Who I’m buying for.”

Jaskier pauses in his efforts to reach his boot, muttering a soft, “Bloody _hell_.”

“I see.” A trickle of suspicion filters over the shopkeeper’s face. “Then can I enquire as to who the doll is for? Surely you don’t have a child.”

If Jaskier were his true, normal size, then not only would they not be in the toy shop at all, but he would have already butted into the conversation, whisking the man away with sweet words and easily turned on charm. 

Unfortunately for them, Jaskier is currently be able to ride a squirrel like a horse.

Geralt is no storyteller, anyone who has heard him talk could vouch for that.

“Uh…”

“For crying out loud…” Jaskier splutters, before calling, his voice not as hushed as it should be, “Just say someone you know had a baby!”

The shopkeeper’s eyes start to trail downwards.

“My bard.” Geralt interjects quickly, regaining the shopkeeper’s focus. “He…Had a baby.”

Jaskier chokes on nothing.

“A bard? Oh! You’re not Geralt of Rivia, per chance?” The shopkeeper’s eyes brighten with recognition, gazing at Geralt in a new light. “The white wolf, from the songs?”

Geralt hums tunelessly.

“My, fancy having you here, right in my shop! How di-”

“The doll.” Geralt cuts in, feeling Jaskier finally manage to pull himself up his boot, wedging down between it and his calf. He adds, belatedly, “Please.”

“Right, of course. Are you sure you want this one, Witcher? As I’ve said, there’s plenty-”

“No. Thanks.”

“Ah, well. You can’t blame an old man for trying, hm?”

“Hm.”

By the time Geralt finally manages to flee the shop, doll in hand and his reputation in shambles, a steady splatter of rain has started to fall, the kind with thick drops and heavy, foreboding skies which promise to continue sobbing well into the night. Their bags are dripping, the leather the only thing saving them from being soaked through, and at their approach Roach nickers at them accusingly, shaking her head.

Patting her on the neck, Geralt mumbles, “Sorry.”

“Yes, yes, she’s a very good girl, now get me out!” Jaskier demands from within his boot, struggling from where he has slid down as Geralt walked. 

Retrieving the bard, Geralt sets him down on the saddle carefully, making sure he doesn’t slip off on the slick material.

“Jask-”

“What a bastard, running into people like that!” Jaskier cuts in, rolling one of his shoulders to ease out an ache. He stands awkwardly on one foot, the other resting only on his toes to keep the weight off. “Do you know how high that was for me? I thought I was going to bash my brains out! Some people really shouldn’t have children, honestly.”

Letting him run his mouth as he puts the doll away and untethers Roach, Geralt asks simply, “You ok?”

Roach bumps his arm in agitated frustration, and he loops a hand under her chin to stroke her calm.

Jaskier huffs, huddling under his cloth poncho as the rain starts to sink through. “Battered, bruised, grazed both my legs, twisted my ankle, and my arm hurts every time I move, but yeah, _alive_. I bounced between you and the shelves, guess it broke my fall.”

Geralt eyes him over. “Didn’t knock anything important out?”

“Oh har _har_. You really pick your moments to be a comedian, Geralt.”

Offering out a hand to place Jaskier back on his shoulder, Geralt carefully transfers him across. “Only when it’s warranted.”

“Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you.” Jaskier takes up his position back between the armour and Geralt’s neck, huddling down, small and damp. He tuts, clicking his tongue. “Keep going straight and we’ll get to an inn. The food’s a bit bland, but it has the best beds.”

“Voice of experience?”

“Of definitely, and speaking of my clothes getting ripped off…”

Gerant goes to shrug as he starts leading Roach along, then thinks better of it. “You might as well wait until we’re at the inn, now. No point getting your new ones as wet as well.”

Sighing, Jaskier curls up tighter, grumbling to himself, and Geralt feels rather than sees him rubbing at his bad ankle.

He ignores the odd twist which sparks in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: Honey, I shrunk the bard.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

With Roach settled in the stables and an order for food and hot water to be brought to their room, Geralt is quick to make his way upstairs and unload their collective gear. 

Setting Jaskier’s lute, which he was nagged to treat with the utmost care all the way from the road, down onto the table, he rests his swords pointedly beside the bed, within arm’s reach should they need to be.

Lessons have been learnt since their last stay at an inn.

Vesemir would have opinions.

Outside the light is gradually darkening to evening, dipping behind heavy clouds as the rain keeps its steady pace. Their room is on the uppermost floor, the downpour singing against the roof and catching every splatter the poor weather has to offer. The sound fills the cramped space, surrounding Geralt with a pleasant white noise as he sets their things about.

Carefully manoeuvring Jaskier from his shoulder to the table, he slowly moves around the room, bringing the candles to life.

“Ugh. What a day.” Jaskier groans tiredly, flopping down onto his back and then grimacing at the sogginess of his poncho. Absently, and more to the ceiling than to Geralt, he adds, “Certainly isn’t how I thought I’d be returning to Oxenfurt.”

“You’ve imagined returning, then?”

“I’ve mused it, once in a while. We can’t all keep our youthful looks and good knees forever, unlike _someone else_ I know.” Pushing himself up onto his elbows as Geralt starts to peel off his armour, Jaskier watches without interest. His arm with the bruise doesn’t hold up long, however, shaking in a way that speaks of hurt, and Jaskier flops back down, his head thudding against the wood.

Ignoring the comment, Geralt grunts, “And you’ll do what? Play until you keel over?”

“Perhaps, if I put my mind to it.” A hand unconsciously travels up and starts massaging his shoulder, the one Jaskier was rolling earlier. “A few people mentioned teaching to me before. I could always dabble.”

“Dabble in the students, more like.”

“I resent that remark!” Jaskier shoots back, and he actually does sound offended. “We’re talking when I’m in my fifties and sixties here, Geralt, there’s no way I’d go round after young maidens then. I wouldn’t now, actually. Their _teachers_ , on the other hand…” Dragging his head up, Jaskier grins wickedly, though the effect is somewhat marred by the dark circles hanging beneath his eyes.

“Hm.”

Finished undressing, Geralt remains only in his underclothes and shoes, as while the room is not the warmest he has ever encountered, evident by the light chill prickling up his exposed arms, it is hardly the coldest, either, though a decent fireplace would not go amiss. The walls block the worst of the wind slowly twisting around the city, whistling along the side streets and alleyways, and considering his childhood and the fact that he has spent many nights camping out in the middle of the woods, Geralt is sure he can manage a little cool air for the evening.

Still rubbing at his shoulder, Jaskier winces, stretching it out and cracking his neck in the way people do when they strain a muscle and can’t work out how to immediately fix it. 

The gesture is reminiscent of one Geralt would frequently find himself doing while at Kaer Morhen. It typically followed a day sparring with the other boys, though that could mean both under the watchful gaze of their teacher, and whenever someone decided it would be an excellent idea to leave a dead rat in his bed.

Three times Geralt had to suffer that surprise, and after the third he ensured it was also the last.

Vesemir gave him stable duty for weeks.

“That the arm you landed on?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. I did try to catch myself, but it’s surprisingly hard when freefalling.”

Geralt makes a low noise, eyeing him critically.

They both turn when a knock bangs on the door, Jaskier squeaking and scrambling to his feet to go ducking behind his lute case, crouching down behind it. Judging by the lack of limp, his ankle has mended itself.

Taking a second to listen to the sounds of the corridor, lightly muffled by the patter of rain, Geralt hums, satisfied, and opens it a crack.

“Food and a bath?” A teenage girl asks, holding a bowl of soup with an older boy stood in the background carrying two large buckets of steaming water. The volume he holds means the water is unlikely to fill the copper bathtub shoved to one side in the room, but a bath is still a bath, and it is better than near-frozen river water.

Pulling back, he allows them to invade the room, quietly walking towards the table and leaning against it, keeping Jaskier behind him as he crosses his arms firmly over his chest.

The pair, undoubtedly brother and sister, going by the shared freckles, make quick work of their tasks, the boy dragging the tub further into the room and filling it as the girl puts down the soup and produces a bread roll from her apron. It smells warm and freshly baked.

Done, they take their leave, though not before blinking big eyes and holding out hands for coin.

“Look at you, regular ol’ chatterbox.” Jaskier teases as Geralt shuts the door and takes a seat.

“Not everyone feels the need to be a nuisance, bard.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Shaking his head, Geralt starts to eat, not quite grimacing at the taste however not enjoying it, either. Jaskier was wholly correct in his earlier description, or perhaps warning. There is nothing but blandness for his tongue, food designed to fill a hole and save of hunger and little else, and Geralt can’t help but mull over the very few and simple seasonings which would make a whole world of difference to his meal. 

Licking the moisture from his lips where the underside of the spoon dripped against them, he silently rips off a chunk of the bread to offer to Jaskier, who scoffs as he embraces it into his arms.

“This is the size of my _head_.”

“Good, then it’ll keep your mouth busy.”

“Do you know _what else_ would keep my mouth busy-”

“Enough.”

Jaskier cackles, then settles down. At first, he tucks his legs beneath him crossed, but after a flinch he splays them out in front of him, lifting the edge of the poncho as he chews. 

Two grazed knees poke out, and Jaskier hisses, turning them in the candlelight. The wounds are red, slightly agitated, but from experience Geralt knows that they will only be a bit tender for a while, unlikely to attract infection unless the bard decides to go swimming in the sewers.

“At least one of those devil children didn’t pick me up.” Glancing at him, Jaskier smiles crookedly. “People already accuse you of making children cry _without_ you going around demanding they give up their toys.”

“Hm.”

“Plus, if that father is some kind of noble, we’d, or rather, _you’d_ be run out of town faster than you could wipe your arse. Then we’d be right back where we started.”

Geralt tilts his head, swallowing another mouthful of watery, tasteless soup. “We’d go to Yennefer-”

Jaskier chucks a clump of bread at him, which misses by several miles and plops into his soup. It sinks.

“ _You_ might get on with that Witch as well as a thatched house burning, but I most certainly do not. I’d rather keep this little adventure to myself, if you please.”

“I don’t know, Jaskier, maybe the people,” He waves a hand absently to indicate the world around them, “Would like to hear the tale of the Witcher’s bard, the man the size of an ant.”

The rest of Jaskier’s bread gets thrown in his direction. This time it hits his nose and bounces off. “I’m at least the size of a very determined mouse, Geralt, keep up.”

“Hm.” Scraping up the last of the soup, Geralt sits back, taking the bread roll. “Had enough?”

“I don’t think there’s a man alive who could eat something the size of their own head and demand seconds.”

He snorts, and then starts methodically cleaning the bowl with the bread, dragging it across the bottom.

Outside, a distant rumble of thunder rattles the walls, far away but approaching. Geralt makes a mental note to close the curtains when he settles in the bed, even if the material is thin it will save his eyes from the worst of the blinding flashes of lightning.

“Think Roach will be ok?”

“She’ll be fine. She’s weathered worse than storms.”

“That’s true. I suppose there’s only so many monsters you can encounter before everything else becomes a bit mundane.” Jaskier chuckles, then shivers. “Hey, can I change now? Bits which shouldn’t be blue are starting to turn that way.”

Sighing, Geralt makes to stand.

Something heavy slams against the wall of their room, hard enough to make the timbre shake, and Jaskier yelps, Geralt whipping around and flinging one arm between the bard and the noise. His feet, having already been turned the opposite direction, catch the legs of the chair in his haste, and not seconds later Geralt is tripping back with a grace utterly undignified for someone so highly trained. 

Knocking into the table, both Geralt and the furniture collapse to the floor in a mess of limbs and bruised dignity, the lute case bouncing off his head as the empty bowl clatters on the wooden floorboards.

“Shit, fuck!” Geralt snaps, staggering back to his feet and reaching for his sword.

On the other side of the wall, someone moans.

He freezes, breathing hard.

Then he tilts his eyes towards the ceiling at the accompanying sounds of two people getting to know each other _intimately_ well.

Without fuel to fire, the sparked adrenaline begins to gradually ebb away, and Geralt lets his shoulders relax, sheathing his blade as he scans sharp eyes across the mayhem of their room. The bowl, and despite the soup leaving a lot to be desired he is thankful that it was empty, rests upside down, the rim slightly dented. Jaskier’s lute is unharmed in its case, mainly due to having a cushion made from Geralt’s skull.

Grimacing, he reaches to touch the forming bruise.

At least no other Witcher was here to witness his blunder. He would never be able to live it down, otherwise. They would sing songs for years.

“Jaskier?”

The bard is nowhere in sight, and with growing unease, Geralt becomes acutely aware of the placement of his feet, the weight they hold and how they could very easily squish his travel companion into a flattened mess. Swallowing, he takes a quick moment to assess himself, checking in case Jaskier has managed to cling onto him and is dangling precariously.

Geralt can’t tell if he is relieved or worried when no bard crawls up his shoulder to yell at him.

Shuffling carefully forward towards the fallen table, he searches through the wreckage again, brows dipping further and further down his brow.

“Jaskier?”

Nothing. Seconds pass, agonisingly silent save for the rain, a noise which might have been something scampering through a puddle outside, and the energetic snogging in the neighbouring room.

Then, loud in his sensitive ears, a splash, a choked gasp, and a strangled, “Ger-”

His eyes snap towards the copper bathtub, towards the steaming water poured not ten minutes ago and the struggling, flailing, _something_ fruitlessly trying to reach the surface for air.

Distressed gargling smacks him into focus.

_“Fuck!”_

The tub is not deep, an older child could probably be left relatively safe within its confinement while a parent saw to some other task, however to a man currently no more than the size of a _very determined mouse_ , Jaskier might as well be lost out in the deepest parts of the ocean, left to drown on brine and helpless to the whims of Destiny.

Knees smacking into the copper with a bang loud enough to resonate, Geralt plunges his hands into the water, ignoring the heat and the uncomfortable wetness as his fingers lock tightly around Jaskier, hastily scooping him out.

Promptly vomiting, Geralt watches intently as Jaskier shudders with the effort, wheezing badly. Harsh hacks rake against his throat, undoubtedly scraping at the vulnerable flesh inside, and his skin flushes a heated red all over, though thankfully not a shade which speaks of scolding burns.

Silently, his jaw set, Geralt sinks to the floor.

“ _Ugh_.” Jaskier groans, doubled over as he clears his lungs. His arms try and fail to support him.

The bard knows how to swim, Geralt has seen it more than once, however as he holds the precious cargo the weight of the sodden poncho becomes alarmingly apparent. For him it is no more than a waterlogged cloth, however for Jaskier, who is now weak to the most mundane of things, it is an inescapable tangle he had no hope in escaping before succumbing to an untimely fate.

Collapsing limp against Geralt’s thumb, Jaskier croaks, “Gera’t?”

“You’re fine, just relax.”

If Jaskier were his normal size, he would be tempted to smack him on the back and help dislodge some of the ingested liquid. Now, however, the idea of doing as such is impossible. Jaskier is small, fragile, a baby bird with breakable wings in comparison to Geralt’s enhanced strength. Without practice, in which he is particularly unwilling to partake, he can’t be sure how much force would make the difference between a careful pat with his fingers, and a whack hard enough to snap something important.

Panting, Jaskier whimpers weakly, his voice laden with cracks, “This isn’t fun. I’m fed up of near-death experiences.”

“Tomorrow we’ll find a Mage.” Geralt promises, seriously.

A humourless laugh escapes Jaskier, and he pushes his wet hair back, glancing up at him through the rivers of water that trail down his face. His eyes are red. “I’m ready for all this to be over.”

Geralt opens his mouth, then closes it again, and after a moment just makes a non-committed hum of vague agreement.

Composing himself, breathing gradually slowing to a normal pace, Jaskier sighs shakily. “I just hope they’re all still here, the Mages. If they’re not, I swear to the Gods I’ll…I’ll…” Giving up, Jaskier just wilts, and Geralt can’t help but give him a concerned once over. His examination is noticed and waved away. “I’m fine. It’s fine. I probably needed the bath.”

“I could’ve killed you.” Geralt comments through thin lips.

Sucking in air, Jaskier flops over, spreading out on his back against Geralt’s palm. “It’s not your fault, really.” He swallows, wincing and lifting a hand to his throat. “We’re both twitchy after that last inn. I probably would’ve just flung myself off the table, anyway. What was the problem?”

A growl works its way into Geralt’s tone. “The people next door are getting…Intimate.”

That forces a startled snort from Jaskier, which in turn sparks coughing. He groans, rubbing at his chest. “Well, I suppose that’s one way to make use of the rooms.”

“They’re being loud.”

“All the worse deeds are. Now,” Forcing himself to sit up, a move which Geralt can see causes his arm and shoulder pain, Jaskier clears his voice and fixes him with a tired, half-drowned look. “Can I have my new clothes, please?”

Geralt is reluctant to turn his back so quickly, should Jaskier start choking again, or follow up on his promise to accidentally fling himself from a high surface, but soon enough he is staring at the bed as the bard peels himself out the makeshift poncho to switch with the doll, the furniture neatly set back to rights.

“Well,” Jaskier hums thoughtfully as an indicator that he can look, “They were never going to be the best fit, but I can at least move without fear of strong winds.”

The red shirt is a simple over-the-head item, fitting the best out of everything though still a little baggy around his arms. The trousers are too long and have been rolled up around Jaskier’s ankles to avoid tripping, the string belt tied tightly to keep them in place, and the dark green cloak sits a touch too small over his shoulders, only just reaching his calves. A button keeps it in place, and the hood hangs limply behind his neck.

Jaskier does a twirl on his bare feet. “Well?” His voice still sounds rough.

“Hm.”

“ _Hm_.” Jaskier throws back at him, crossing his arms. He puffs up air over his face, still slightly reddened from the hot water, making his damp hair dance. “A wordsmith as always, thank you Geralt.”

Tugging off his undershirt, Geralt starts towards the bath, untying his belt and smirking around a smug, “You’re welcome.”

“Oh, you are _insufferable_.”

The rest of the night passes uneventfully, much to Geralt’s relief. However, as he lays in bed, the rain pattering overhead and Jaskier snoring gently in one of their bags, sleep does not grace him, and his hand remains poised near the handle of his steel sword, ready for a threat that never comes.

****

*****

The following morning finds Geralt knocking on a nondescript door, holding himself steady against the constant weeping of rain flowing down from the sky.

Crouched behind his neck, Jaskier hums a tune softly under his breath, faffing with the piece of string they had the forethought to secure to the top of his armour and loop around the bard’s waist. The knots are solid, Geralt having ensured so himself, however Jaskier continues to fiddle with it anyway, checking the string and running his fingers over the circle at his hips.

When nothing happens after a moment, the bard pauses, glancing up and hissing lowly, “Come on Bea, you old bitch, still be here.”

“And if she’s not?”

“Then we’ll find Earic.” Jaskier shrugs, adjusting the hood drawn up over his head to save off the worst of the rain. His throat has recovered well overnight from his unexpected dip, but the injuries from the fall remain. “Though the last time I saw him he was near blind, so-”

Geralt bangs his fist against the door again, taking note that it wobbles on its hinges. 

The house is hardly what he expected. While the rest of the city boats timbre buildings and colour, the narrow streets and pointed rooves dubbed part of its charm, the dwelling they currently stand before is a brick nook of a thing, with vines scrambling up the walls for the best light and weeds springing between the two paved slabs wedged into the ground in front of the door. The windows are grey and dusty on the inside, and half the chimney seems ready to crumble away.

According to Jaskier, this is one of the official houses for the Academy professors littered around, and to own one is to wield respect and privilege.

Whoever lives here clearly failed to understand the honour bestowed upon them.

At the sound of a metal bolt sliding from its lock, Geralt straightens, meeting the gaze of a middle-aged woman as she steps forward from the darkened room.

“What?” She demands bluntly. Her hair is brown, but it tints grey at the roots, the beginnings of wrinkles framing her eyes.

“That’s not Bea…” Jaskier whispers behind his ear.

Geralt sets his jaw. “I’m looking for a Mage.”

“Why?”

“I’m seeking a cure for an acquaintance. I was told there are Mages in the city.”

She leans a hand against the doorframe to keep any wandering gaze from peeking inside the room behind her, tapping a nail against the wood. 

“ _Mage_. Singular. The others died in the recent sickness, and last I heard Earic had buggered off somewhere to be useless.” She narrows her eyes, scanning him with obvious judgement. “I’m a professor, not some backwards Witch tending to local town whims. I don’t _do_ jobs.”

Tilting his head, Geralt rumbles lowly in the back of his throat, letting himself scan her over and making no point to hide the fact, considering she did the same to him. She bristles under his observations, clicking her tongue disapprovingly.

“You’re not going to bully me, _Witcher_.” She sneers, setting her hands on her hips and trying to match his height. “I think you’ll find I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

“Yet you won’t accept my coin.”

“Whatever ails your _acquaintance_ is of no concern of mine. Run along to butcher innocents elsewhere, I have work to do.”

Keeping the frustration from showing on his face, Geralt inclines his head shortly, stepping back.

Behind his neck, Jaskier mutters, quiet enough for no human to hear, “Who pissed in _her_ ale?”

Not quiet enough, apparently, for a Mage.

_“Excuse me?”_

Jaskier startles. “She _heard_ that?”

Before Geralt can open his mouth to spill out excuses and placations, a powerful surge of magic batters against his chest, tingling like static across his skin. Taken by surprise, stars darting across his vision like meteors, Geralt staggers backwards, his shoes sliding on the mud underfoot.

Yelping at the unexpected blast, Jaskier tumbles over and goes sliding down Geralt’s back, the string snapping taunt as it catches him. There he dangles, like a fish on a line, muttering a string of vibrant curses under his breath and scrabbling to find purchase on the smooth leather.

Instinctively Geralt grasps for him, aiming to latch onto the string to pull him back up, however the Mage quickly advances towards him, unbothered by the rain as she lurches into his space, face stricken with barely contained fury. Redirecting, Geralt grabs his sword, not yet unsheathing it but letting the threat linger, waiting for the cue.

There is a glint in her eyes, one just as unhinged as the door, and Geralt shifts his stance.

“I have _had it_ ,” The Mage spits at him, as close to a snarl someone can get without transforming into a beast, “With arrogant male ego looking down at me as if I’m pig shit!"

Against his armour, Jaskier sways on the string, wise enough to recognise the danger and keep his mouth firmly shut. He is, however, unable to control the momentum of his swaying, and Geralt subtly tries to hold himself as still as possible, keeping his and the Mage’s gaze pinned to retain her focus.

“If you can’t _fucking_ handle your own problems, then don’t make them mine! If I took in every sob story and-” Her mouth abruptly snaps shut, and her eyes widen, sliding away from him.

Geralt hums, going to take a step back. “Then I’ll take my leave.”

Shoes squelching in the waterlogged mud, he starts to inch back, stopping dead when the Mage’s hand frantically springs out like a praying mantis, seizing Jaskier and swiftly yanking on the string to snap it. Releasing his sword, Geralt snatches her wrist, clasping it with a strength that makes the corners of her mouth dip with pain.

Their stares clash again, this time dawning realisation meeting unwavering hard.

Locked in her clasp, Jaskier is frozen, gulping up at the woman who only moments before was threatening to blast them halfway across the city. Her grip is too tight, as evident by the way his hands protest the fingers clutching his middle, the lines around his eyes creasing with a poorly hidden flinch.

“Huh.” She says, her head falling to one side in mock contemplation. “Look at that.”

“Let him go.”

She hums with no real tune, not moving a muscle towards following the command. The nail of her thumb, polished and clean, travels up to press against Jaskier’s cheek, sinking down into the soft skin.

“Um, hi, hello.” Jaskier stammers, glancing rapidly between the Mage and Geralt. With a small noise he shoves her thumb away, tilting his head back to create space between them but leaving his neck exposed, vulnerable to her whims. Geralt’s jaw hardens. Clearing his throat, Jaskier continues, “This wasn’t quite how I planned to make our introductions, but-”

“How’d you come to possess one of these, Witcher?” The Mage asks, and Geralt hates the way something fizzles beneath her expression, a cat having spotted a nest of mice.

“That is no concern of yours.”

Delight flickers, and she smiles. “Oh, I see, very well, then. I’ve found my price.”

Glowering, he grunts, “Excuse me?”

“Your pixie.” Despite her wrist being ensnared, she waggles it, making Jaskier scramble to hold on as his head gets knocked from side to side on his neck, his legs kicking uselessly. “In return for your sought-after cure.”

_“Pixie?”_

“No.” Geralt feels his lip twitch, and his free hand goes for his sword again. “We’re leaving.”

The blast of magic to the chin catches him stupid, and like the fool he is Geralt’s fingers loosen, giving the Mage enough room to slip free and retreat back into the darkness of her house.

A trickle of blood dribbles from his nose. He wipes it on the back of his leather glove and marches after her, sword completely drawn.

The inside is a true reflection of the outside, a complete tip which has failed to see a good dusting or care in months, perhaps longer. Tables of various sizes, heights, and shapes lay scattered at random angles, their surfaces covered with jars, bottles, dried flowers, and stuffed creatures of all variants. Books and thick tomes line the shelves on the walls, stacked sideways to fit more on the bending wood, and as his eyes adjust to the new lighting, Geralt realises he is standing on the skins of wolverines stitched haphazardly together to form one single, large rug.

“Call me Marike.” The Mage calls over her shoulder, unbothered by his approaching snarl. Jaskier gets dumped uncaringly into a tight-fitting glass vial, barely more than the size of him, and as she fixes the cork lid Geralt swings his blade up to her neck, holding it there.

For a moment, only her steadily beating heart and gentle breathing fill the room, the stank of must and rot infiltrating his nose, before she continues as if nothing has happened at all.

“What’s your name, Witcher?” She asks chattily.

“Return him.”

“Ah, but what about your acquaintance, hm?” Setting the vial onto the table, Marike turns, keeping her neck against the sword’s sharp edge. “What is it you need, an abortion spell to avoid a mutated abomination, perhaps? A little something or other to pick up certain,” She glances smugly down towards his pelvis, “Parts?”

Geralt meets her satisfaction with distain. “As I said, that is no longer your concern.”

In the corner of his vision, he can make out Jaskier pushing against the cork lid to no avail. He strains with the effort, but quickly gives up in favour of massaging his bad shoulder, face pinched and mouth drawn down worriedly.

“Come on, you told me that you heard there were Mages in Oxenfurt, meaning you travelled from outside the city just to see me.” 

Leaning against the table, Marike swipes the vial, not so much as blinking when the fast movement sends Jaskier smacking against the glass, his hand flying to his mouth as his skin tints lightly green. Swallowing something back, he protests, loudly, though it is muffled by the barrier between them.

“ _Stop_.”

Marike disregards Geralt’s warning growl, brandishing Jaskier in his direction. “What’s one pixie to the cure you desperately need?”

He leans forward to hiss, his sword solid in its position, “Pixies don’t exist.”

Marike scoffs harshly. “They do if you know where to look, or are lucky enough have a nice, big Witcher stroll up to your door.”

“Hey, uh,” Jaskier calls from his prison, momentarily catching her attention by banging a fist against the glass, “He’s telling the truth. I’m very much not a pixie. Never have been, never will-”

“Cute.” She cuts off, then returns her full focus back to Geralt. “So, this cure you-” A strangled gasp destroys her words as his sword cuts into her neck, not deeply, but enough to draw a steady line of crimson blood.

“ _Enough_.” He barks, looming above her. “Return him to me and you will be left with just the single mark.”

Marike’s eyes flame, her teeth set. “Pixie bones could make the difference between-”

In a single, calculated move he is only able to pull off through years of training and swordsmanship, Geralt draws back his sword just enough to slash it lightly across the hand holding the vial.

Screeching, Marike staggers, dropping the glass in favour of cradling the injury close.

Jaskier cries out as he suddenly begins his second freefall in as many days, but it cuts off with a strangled gasp when Geralt lunges forward, catching him and the vial before it can shatter on the floor and shred the bard’s flesh into ribbons.

Twisting on his heel, he storms from the house, out into the rain and away from the suffocating dark and must and dust. Curses and insults get flung haphazardly after him, hitting like blunt daggers against his armoured back.

Geralt kicks down the door on his way out. There is little practical reason to do so, but it gives him a smug sense of satisfaction, anyway.

“You ungrateful son of a bitch!” Marike’s voice screams after them, a rumble of magic shivering the ground, but Geralt is already gone, ducking through crowds and side streets, letting the rain wash away her threats like sand on the shore.

When he is confident enough that they are a safe distance away, he slinks into a narrow alley between two tall buildings, sheathing his sword, uncorking the vial, and letting Jaskier slide out onto his hand.

“Are you hurt?”

Clearing his throat, Jaskier goes about setting his clothes and hair back into order, brushing off non-existent dirt. A low sound catches the back of his throat when he reaches to tug his hood back over his head, and he stiffens before sighing, rubbing vigorously at his arm. 

“Well, she certainly wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.”

Dropping the vial and letting it smash on the floor, Geralt ignores Jaskier’s disapproving tut and carefully raises a finger to the bard’s chin. With the utmost care, he tips Jaskier’s head back and to the side, sneering at the bruising crescent moon forming on his cheek.

Gingerly, Jaskier’s own fingers brush across his latest blemish, not quite wincing but making a face which is infuriatingly close.

“All these years I’ve travelled with you,” He starts, forcing a jovial tone that Geralt immediately registers as fake, “And the worst I’ve ended up with is a scar of my arse. Now, when I’m _literally_ the least bothersome I can be, I’m more battered than ever!”

It is an attempt to joke, to lighten the mood, to draw away from the fact that their journey to Oxenfurt was a complete waste of time, however, as they meet each other’s eyes, the truth lingering like lightning, it fails to land.

Geralt’s lips thin, nearly curling. “I’m sorry.”

Clicking his tongue, Jaskier shoves away his concerned touch, setting his hands on his hips. “Hardly your fault she’s several crackers short of a marble. She said there’s no other Mages, yes, but there’s probably a few low-level magic users floating around, there always were when I studied. It shouldn’t be hard to track a someone down.”

“ _Jaskier_ -”

“Come on, Geralt, please?” Drawing his cloak around himself, Jaskier shuffles on his bare feet. “Forget about all that. Let’s just go and look, yeah? Maybe somewhere warmer?”

Sighing, Geralt simply nods once, and sets Jaskier against his neck.

“Just hold on. We no longer have the string.”

****

*****

When all this first began, Geralt was a fool to believe this would be easy.

However, as they return to their room, skin chilled from a day in the rain and no closer to finding a cure, he silently scolds himself, setting the dejected bard down onto the table.

A part of him had also found the situation amusing. In hindsight, that may have been the relief of discovering Jaskier alive, yapping his usual complaints in his new pint-sized body, but there was no denying that he allowed the teasing to flow freely on his tongue. Their relationship has always been like that, quippy and sarcastic, bouncing back-and-forth with sarcasm and the bard’s usual dramatics to Geralt’s scathing comments, and this new development simply gave more fuel to that fire, practically lending itself to it.

He was a fool, and now Jaskier keeps getting hurt.

The toy shop, the bath, Marike, _fuck_ , even the initial spiking of ale back at the inn, all of it has been while Jaskier resides under his unofficial watch. 

The bard was _eighteen_ when they first met in that dingy tavern at the edge of the world, and, loathe as he is to admit it, Geralt couldn’t help but keep an eye out for him, for the boy barely free from the throes of his teenage years and following him around like a puppy yet to fit its paws.

Jaskier has grown, since then, carving his own path as he became a man, yet Geralt still remains hovering nearby, his eyes peeled as he bumbles through scrapes and gets into mischief.

Five days on from their ambush at the inn, and the bruises, scraped knees, battered arm, poor shoulder, and marred cheek all sing their testaments to how badly Geralt has managed this entire ordeal.

In any other situation, the failure would be _embarrassing_. He is a Witcher, a mutant, he is trained with sword and shield and he wields magic and highly tuned senses. Caring for something as small as Jaskier should be easier than seeing to his horse.

Yet, he is failing.

The thought of it sets Geralt’s teeth on edge in a way he can’t explain, and he grinds them hard, listening as Jaskier starts up a steady stream of blabber from the table.

“Wherever we go next, just make sure it’s not Cidaris. If Valdo saw me like _this_ , I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Hm.”

Outside, the grey clouds seem unhurried at relenting the steady downpour anytime soon, happily turning the paths to slush and mud. Large puddles form in every dip and pothole, creating a maze of mini pools and boot-soaking lakes for children to splash in and adults to swerve. As they walked back, the sky darkening with oncoming night, Geralt had been hyper aware of each one, conscious of the fact that their safety string has been rendered useless.

“No, seriously, you’ve never met the man. When I say he can hold a grudge, I mean he can hold a _grudge_.” Jaskier continues, sitting as Geralt starts organising the room, shoving the bathtub as far away from the table as possible.

If they are to leave, he will need to go on a supply run. Jaskier is not eating as much as he normally would, but they don’t know when or where this ordeal could end. Finding themselves in the middle of nowhere with two mouths to suddenly feed would just be another nail in Geralt’s steadily weaning patience.

“I think poor Juliette is still in his bad books for spilling writing ink on his silk trousers, even though she apologised, paid for new ones, and let him use all her personal books from home for his essays.” Jaskier’s head follows him as he moves around, rubbing his hands together to chase away the rain’s numbness. “I think she even made him some cakes, which is bloody stupid because she tripped over _Gillet’s_ stupid feet in the first place. If anyone should’ve been pandering to that bastard, it should’ve been him!”

“Hm.”

Shivering and sniffing noisily, Jaskier draws his legs up and adjusts the cloak so it covers him completely. “ _Not_ , of course, that Valdo deserves to be pandered to. Do you _know_ how much money he comes from?”

There is a pause, the intention being that Geralt fills it, however he keeps his eyes away, mentally counting the potions in his bag and chewing over the likelihood he will be able to find the ingredients for more in the city.

When it becomes clear he does not mean to answer, Jaskier carries on as if nothing happened.

“It’s not petty stuff, and unlike the rest of us, his parents were willing to splash out on anything and everything their _precious little son_ required. I don’t think I ever saw him wear the same outfit twice the entire time I studied here, and naturally us low-level peasants were looked down upon for wearing our shoes two days in a row.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier blows out a puff of air as Geralt unsheathes his sword, examining it closely where it was held against the Mage’s neck. Dribbles of crimson run down, not much, but enough to warrant seeing to. 

Taking the rag he normally uses for such things, one he has been reliably informed stinks worse than _a drowners arsehole_ , Geralt perches on the edge of the bed and starts methodically cleaning the blood away.

After a moment, Jaskier pipes up again. “Oh, look at that, I’ve sprouted wings, Geralt. I’m floating away. Oh my, is this what the moon is like? I think I might stay here. It holds better conversation than present company.”

“Hm.”

“ _Sweet Melitele preserve me_.”

A minute passes by, one that is silent save for the rain and other inn guests. Across the road, in a building with a low roof and the sweet smell of hay, he can hear the sounds of horses nickering, blowing their lips and knocking their legs against the inside of their stable doors impatiently. Roach is among them, and if Geralt was in any doubt then the occasional yelps from workers as they receive teeth to the ear or hand keeps his concerns at bay.

Something small and soft strikes Geralt’s chest, and he blinks, staring dumbly at the rolled-up cloak which tumbles down onto his lap. With an unimpressed hum, he scowls at Jaskier, who stands with his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

“What?”

 _“What?”_ Jaskier repeats, incredulous. “I could discuss the weather with a tent pole and get more chatter out of it. Stop brooding, it’s no fun when I can’t whisk you down to the tavern and sing your woes away, or at the very least flick your forehead.”

Geralt lets his scowl deepen, returning to his blade. He pauses when he finds it shining clean.

The room dips a touch darker as the sun, hidden by clouds, sinks further beyond the horizon. Something runs along the roof, fast paws quick on the wet surface. A rat, perhaps, or a bedraggled cat.

“Hey, Geralt? Can I have my cloak back?”

Rolling his eyes, which earns him a protest, Geralt hands it over, putting his sword away. Jaskier is quick to wrap the material around himself, huddling under it despite the fabric being just as damp as the rest of him. Saying nothing, Geralt starts lighting the candles, bringing one over to the table and setting it down. Brightening, Jaskier hurries to it, holding his hands up to the heat.

“Don’t coat yourself in wax, bard.”

“At least I’d die warm.”

“You’d also _die_.”

“Tch, schematics.”

They both jump at the knock on the door, Geralt’s head whipping towards it while Jaskier scurries to hide behind his lute case.

“Food!” A voice calls through.

It is the same girl as before, holding another bowl of mediocre soup in one hand and a tankard of ale in the other. She smiles, politely, but her eyes hold caution as she hands them over, glancing up and down his armour.

He grunts his thanks and waits until she has started down the stairs before closing the door, taking up the same position as the previous night at the table.

Jaskier wanders up.

“No bread?”

“Apparently not. We have rations in my bag, though. I can-” Geralt stops when Jaskier waves a dismissive hand, settling back down beside the candle.

“To be honest, I’m not all that hungry. Maybe later.”

Geralt watches him a moment, the way his pleasant smile stretches stiffly against the bruise and how his thumbs, his hands clasped around his legs, absently rub circles against the healing grazes. 

The soup, when he spoons it into his mouth, tastes bitter, though he refuses to ponder the exact cause as to why.

He eats in silence, and Geralt has finished his tankard and is halfway through the bowl when Jaskier asks, tentatively, “So, what next?”

He allows himself a moment to mull the question over, swallowing slowly.

“We find a Mage.” Going to take a drink before remembering it is all gone, Geralt sighs, glancing towards his bags and coin pouch. “Though, we were banking on you calling in a favour here. If we have to pay a stranger, I might need to take another job before we do.”

That thought sparks a whole new set of problems. 

Ideally, he would leave Jaskier at the campsite or inn while he went to work, but he could be gone for days, and the bard would be left on his own for the duration. The past week has already proved that people are more than willing to encroach on his space if they feel as if they have something to gain, which is especially true for unguarded bags, so even if no hungry rats or inn cats came wandering by, a lingering threat would still hover over them.

The alternative is to take Jaskier on a hunt with him and Roach, perhaps leaving him in one of Roach’s saddlebags. She has always had a good head on her, it is how she has lasted this long in Geralt’s company, so theoretically she would keep him away from any danger.

Then again, Jaskier is not Roach, and the idea of having him in the presence of wailing beasts and slashing monsters turns the soup in his stomach sour. He is small, like this, powerless and breakable, and his mare, for all that she is sturdy and strong, has already shown she can toss the bard flying when panicked. If he were dropped there would be no saying what could happen, especially if the fight drew close.

“I know you don’t want to,” Geralt starts lowly, fixing Jaskier with a look, “But I think we need to consider Yennefer again.”

Jaskier scrunches his nose. “I don’t-”

“We’re not going to fix this anytime soon on our own.” He interrupts, pushing the bowl to one side unfinished. “It’s getting dangerous, having you this small. The last two days have proved that.”

Something unreadable flickers briefly across the bard’s face, an emotion so quick that Geralt almost misses it. Clearing his throat, Jaskier draws his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them tightly.

“It wasn’t my _intention_ to keep falling off.”

“Just because you didn’t intend for something to happen, doesn’t mean it didn’t, or that it won’t happen again.”

His shoulders momentarily shagging before forcefully rising, Jaskier mutters, “I don’t like Yennefer.”

“I know.”

“She’s a bitch.”

“She is.”

“She’ll never give up teasing me about this.” Running a hand through his hair, Jaskier glances away, staring off distantly and resting his elbow on his knee. “She’ll remind me _constantly_.”

“Either we go to a Mage we know will bring you back to normal, or we find a stranger to perform magic on you. It’s the…Lesser evil.”

Still adverting his gaze, Jaskier merely hums a tuneless, “Hm.”

Sighing, Geralt leans forward on his elbows. “Jaskier-”

A knock on the door cuts him off.

No call of food follows.

Sharing a glance, Geralt stands, quickly eyeing his swords beside the bed and making the split-second decision to draw his steel, tucking it neatly behind him as he approaches the door. Once again, Jaskier heads off behind his lute case.

“Who is it?” He calls, eyes trailing up to the bolt which he now realises is unlocked.

Vesemir’s scolding voice echoes through his mind.

Someone breathes heavily on the other side. Several feet shift on wood.

Geralt barely manages to sidestep out the way as the door is kicked in violently, flying across the room as a man, bearded and wearing official-looking armour, storms in, flanked by three guards. Their eyes collide, and both parties narrow their gazes as they inspect the other, Geralt baring his teeth as he manoeuvres between them and the table.

“Geralt of Rivia, I presume?” The man asks casually, face unwavering in the presence of a Witcher. At his nod, he continues, “I’m Howette de Murivel, head of preserving the peace here in Oxenfurt.”

“What does that have to do with you,” Geralt pointedly glances at the broken door then back again, “Letting yourselves into my room?”

“An arrest warrant has been placed on your head for the murder of innocent men at an inn not far from the city, slaughtered in cold blood.” Tilting his chin up, a smug look of contempt tilts the corner of Howette’s lips. “Additionally, one of our Academy Mages claims you assaulted her, and have brought into our town a creature which could breed and infest our homes. You can surely understand that I can’t let such an individual march free on our streets, can’t you?”

Growling, Geralt shifts on his feet, adjusting his weight and listening to Jaskier huddling down as low as he is able. “ _What_ creature?”

“A pixie.”

“Pixies don’t exist.”

“The same way a mutt doesn’t in a student’s dorm, when pets aren’t allowed?” Howette scoffs. “We have only just come the other side of sickness here, Witcher, we don’t need your pests stealing from already hindered citizens. Come quietly, and no spectacle shall be made of you.”

“Hm.” Geralt eyes over three other guards, finding trained soldiers staring back. “And if I don’t?”

A smile, so close to cruel it could almost be called as such but held together with a grace of dignity that instead gives it a malicious air, spreads over Howette’s round face.

“One of the men you killed was Robert of Dorian, sole inheritor of his family’s lands and son of one of the Academy’s most frequent benefactors. Let’s just say his father seeks justice for his lost heir and is willing to contemplate less…Humane ways of satisfying his need.”

“Then this _father_ needs to see that his children don’t go picking fights with men they can’t handle.”

Sniffing, Howette stands to one side, motioning one of the men, who holds metal shackles, forward. “Chain him and take him away, he can be dealt with in the morning. Scour the room for the pixie, and when you find it, burn it.”

The guard steps up, and no sooner than he does, he finds himself at the end of Geralt’s steel sword.

“No.” He growls simply.

“No? Witcher, this is not a request.”

“If you think you can make me leave with you, then you will find yourself sorely mistaken.” His grip on his blade is steady, and he allows it to dig a little more into the guard’s front. “And pixies don’t exist.”

Clicking his tongue, Howette carries an expression akin to a man finding a deceased rodent in his outhouse a minute into his business. “Take him by force.”

Déjà vu is a strange sense, one that never fails to wiggle uncomfortable beneath Geralt’s skin. He has lived a long life, and will continue to do so, for as long as his sword stays true and his bones quick. The bizarre feeling of being somewhere before, holding similar conversations in mirrored company, will always wander alongside him. 

However, as metal clashes and the fierce grunts of a fight fill the room, Geralt knows exactly where the brush of familiarity comes from.

An inn, where blood stains the floorboards and broken pots lay smashed on dirt roads. Where a boy with sticky fingers helps himself to drunkards’ belongings, and musicians get ignored as they play their digits sore.

Where he allowed his watch to waver, and his bard paid the price.

The chair goes toppling in the foray, making the table wobble and Jaskier muffle a shriek. Gritting his teeth, Geralt cuts low, aiming to swipe the man down and fend off the rest, but his move is predicted, intervened by a second blade, and the next thing he knows, it is two on one, and the third has slipped by and clocked the person he is supposed to protect.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shrieks as he is grabbed, kicking, scratching, and flailing against the glove squeezing him, struggling to gasp fully from the strength of the grip.

“Fuck.” Shooting _Aard_ and sending the two staggering, Geralt spins on his heel and swings his sword at the man’s throat, cutting into the vulnerable skin and spraying splatters of red. It showers, decorating the table and floor in thick dribbles.

The man goes down with barely a gargle, and Geralt snags Jaskier before he can full and break, holding him close as he turns.

Howette glares, previously haughty eyes now burning with rage, and in sync the remaining two guards advance, aiming pointed ends low and high.

Geralt knows, for all his training and years at Kaer Morhen, he can’t fight like this, not in such confined quarters while trying to keep Jaskier out of harm’s way. It is too much, too fiddly, as if he is sparring while holding an uncooked egg. All it would take is a misstep, a trip, a blunder on anyone’s part, and the bard could be pierced or snapped or stomped to mush, ending his mortal life quicker than a moth catching flame.

Hardly for the first time, he curses the lack of pockets in his armour, how the rigid leather offers nothing for Jaskier to tuck away and hide in. Even if he managed to get him into one of their bags, Jaskier would still be vulnerable, viable to being knocked out or crushed.

Metal meets metal, Geralt holding the swords at bay as his mind works overtime to seek a way out, to find a loophole he can slink through that avoids the most attention as possible. This is not like the previous inn, where sloppy men drunk on their own abilities and charged with liquor courage and self-importance allowed their stances to widen too far, their swings to aim higher than needed and roars of protest offer nothing but noise. These guards have seen fights, seen battle, and know more than _Robert of Dorian_ ever could in the art of the blade.

Something has to be done, and quick. He needs Jaskier contained in something simple to carry, where he can’t get squished to death or fall easily, giving Geralt more room to fight without fear of leaving the bard exposed.

His eyes flicker towards the table, and an idea forms.

Mentally, he apologises.

Jaskier _screams_ as Geralt tosses him sailing into the air, legs kicking and arms spinning like windmills, but he pays this no heed as, in a move he learned from a fellow Witcher he can no longer recall the name of, Geralt twists and lets himself sink to his knees, slashing legs and tendons as he does.

Yelling out in pain and horror, the men stagger, their minds lost and distracted to his immediate threat, giving the perfect opening to slash forward across one’s throat, and up through the jaw of the other.

Then, lunging desperately sideways, Geralt snatches the empty tankard and catches Jaskier on his return fall.

“I hate you!” Jaskier yells at him, hair windswept and face alarmingly pale, his voice echoing in his small confinements. “I _fucking_ hate you!”

Barely registering it, Geralt breathes heavily, staring Howette down. His hand carefully moves to cover the top of the cup, almost perfectly keeping the bard trapped inside.

Howette glares back, his face so thunderous it is a miracle lightning doesn't spark from his fists. The stench of copper blood suffocates the room, strong enough that even the human wrinkles his nose, lips twitching as he fights down the need to snarl like a rabid dog.

_“Witcher-”_

Flicking up his stained blade, Geralt holds it pointedly. “Turn around and walk away. Don’t lead more men to death.”

“You’re the one who sought violence, not I.”

“I think there’s a door which states otherwise.”

As if two hunched and hissing alley cats, caught in one another’s presence and stiffened with territorial hatred, they remain locked in a battle of eyes, neither moving, neither speaking, and neither willing to make the first move and give the other power.

“Geralt?” Jaskier speaks up from beneath his hand, tapping the side of the tankard. “Geralt, we need to _go_.”

He knows. He can hear them, the guards outside, the ones entering through the door below and making their way up the stairs. The walls are thin, the shouting was loud, and Geralt highly doubts Howette made much effort to hide his intentions as he waltzed into the building.

“You can still get out of this peacefully, Witcher.” Howette says, coolly, calmly, and a lesser man might believe the milk and sweet honey he pours from his teeth. “There’s still time to correct this.”

“Geralt?”

There is a sword at Howette’s side, sheathed, still pure from gore and guts, and going by his posture he has no intentions of drawing it.

Positions bestowed at the expense of coin rarely make for decent fighters, in Geralt’s experience.

Still holding himself ready for attack, he slowly backs up, his footing confident and purposeful despite the trashed room. Juggling the tankard to keep it upright, he snatches the lute case, their bags, and his silver sword, tossing them all over his shoulders. The weight is unwelcome, overbalanced and uneven, however Geralt refuses to let his displeasure show on his face, his lips thin and glower scathing.

“Looking to make a run for it?” Howette goads. “I brought fifty of my best men with me tonight, you cannot esca-”

The man abruptly eats his words as Geralt, with a grace battered into his body from a young age, leaps onto the bed, kicks open the window, and all but flings himself out onto the slick, slippery roof.

Rain and wind greet him with open arms, pounding against the exposed skin of his face as Jaskier yelps in panic, his boots skating forward on the tiles as he willingly allows his body to slide down the steep angle. He staggers towards the edge, hearing Howette lean out the window behind him.

“He’s making a break for it!” The man howls, seeking to be heard against the foul weather. “Seize him!”

Swiftly sheathing his sword, Geralt leans down onto his side as they continue accelerating, the gushing gutter racing to meet them. The second his feet hit the miniature river, he hooks his hand around it, swinging himself over the edge and down onto the neighbouring storage shed, thudding loudly against the old structure.

From there, he runs and leaps, keeping one hand over the top of the tankard to save Jaskier from flying out, and lands near ankle-deep in the mud of the road.

At his sudden appearance, a familiar whinny of surprise catches his attention, and Geralt glances up to find guards staring at him in shock, struck dumb, and some none the wiser, not even looking in his direction. Roach battles against them, rearing as they latch at her reigns, trying to command her as stable hands watch cautiously nearby.

They didn’t expect him so soon, nor his unorthodox escape, making it easy to spring forward and bring the nearest lives to an end.

Roach is not saddled but that is the least of their concerns, and he hitches himself up, grappling for the reigns with his one free hand and whistling her into motion. Shouting sings around them in a rising chorus, angry and vengeful and fierce, and together they charge, Geralt spurring Roach into a canter and then a gallop which sees them racing for the bridge.

Rain is sleek on the mare’s neck, slickening her mane and catching her harshly in the eyes. Geralt fares is no better, spitting sideways as he rides. Mud and muck sprays up at them, like wet flames of victory premature and hexing their chances.

“Hey!” Jaskier bellows up over the whistling wind. He jumps and hits against the gloved palm of Geralt’s hand. “Why the fuck am I in here? Let me out!”

“You’d just fall off!” Geralt bites back, his tone harsh with adrenaline. “Stay in there!”

Behind them, voices give chase, muffled and distant but baying like hounds, a noble’s prized possessions catching whiff of a vixen and howling the call to arms.

Roach is trustworthy under his command, sensitive to his will as he guides them through the dark and the rain, her footing sturdy beneath them. She hates this, he can read it as clear as day, yet she doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight, simply trusts in her master who has kept her safe and comfortable for so long.

They run.

They bolt.

They _flee_.

Geralt knows it is there before he sees it, the blockade, the row of guards ready to put a halt to their tornado of chaos, yet their options are gone, there is no turning back, no other route he can divert to and take. Jaskier is relying on him, now more than ever in this entire mess, because no matter what they plan to do with Geralt, what Oxenfurt’s dedicated patron wishes to cook up in revenge for his arrogant son, they will put his bard to death, uncaring for his pleas, explanations, or humanity.

With this, Geralt meets the line of guards head on, roaring fire scorching his veins as he sends men falling. Roach rears, dancing on her hooves as she dodges and kicks, knocking away weapons and darting them out of range. The metal of swords screeches, men collapsing to the ground as the wind shrieks like a banshee, scouring across the bridge with the water lashing violently below.

 _Aard_ sends some sprawling, _Igni_ forcing others back, but they keep coming, surrounding Geralt even as he drives Roach forward, making it halfway across the bridge.

It is a wayward hit that topples them.

A blade catches Roach, sending her bounding unsteadily sideways as blood spills from the wound. The move leaves Geralt overbalanced, the weight of their bags, the lute, and his silver sword dragging him messily down to the slick ground.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cries out, rolling in the tankard as Geralt regains his footing.

Breathing hard, he holds Jaskier as far from the fight as he can, shoving men back and catching their throats with every opportunity he has. His muscles, well trained, suited to this line of work, wail at him, tense in a way Vesemir would scold and striking rigid every time he becomes hyper aware of where he positions his bard.

Witchers are many things. 

They are solitary beasts, created from experiment and magic, trained, skilled, and damn deadly when they need to be. They know exactly what their purpose is, and exactly what it _is not_ , and no other man anywhere in the Continent can understand their own capabilities the same way a Witcher intimately understands theirs.

Witchers are not, however, invincible, and stones of ice smash into the pit of Geralt’s stomach the second he realises he _is not going to win_.

Luck has never been his friend. It abandoned him with the potion that struck Jaskier down, it abandoned him the moment he stepped foot in Oxenfurt, searching for a cure, and it abandoned him when Roach was caught with a sharpened edge, blood oozing from the cut as she whinnies wildly.

Then, in a move he notices a single heartbeat too late, luck abandons him again, and the tankard is whacked from his gasp, sent spinning in a giant curve into the air.

Everything else drains from his mind, the guards, the rain, his horse, and Geralt spins, reaching out, rushing forward to catch, to grab, to lock his fingers around his bard and bring him back where he will be safe, shielded from everything that could ever hurt him.

His arm gets yanked back, locked tightly in the grip of many. Hands latch onto his armour, acting as anchors against his urgent tide. A shoulder tackles his chest, forcing his feet backwards as his lungs splutter and all sense of breathing leaves him.

“Geralt!”

_“Jaskier!”_

His bard goes plummeting over the edge of the bridge and vanishes beneath the waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just write over 20,000-words just because I had the final image of Geralt loosing Jaskier over the side of the bridge stuck in my mind? 
> 
> Yes. Yes I did.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

When he was young, his Mother took him to the coast and pressed the delicate curve of a seashell against his ear.

“Listen, can you hear it?”

He recalls gasping at the sound and peering up at her as they stood together on the shore, waves lapping up to smother their feet. The bottoms of his trousers were rolled to his knees, he can remember vividly because he had tripped and cut them not two days before and the injuries shone in the bright sunshine. Smiling, his Mother allowed the fabric of her dress to become drenched in salt brine.

“What is it?”

“It’s the song of the sea.” She whispered, as if sharing one of the greatest secrets of the entire world. “My parents, your Grandparents, used to bring me here when I was a little girl. Do you like it?”

Jaskier, though not then called as such, had beamed at her, his face yet to be bruised by the same hand running through his curled hair, and scampered off to shove the shell into the face of one of the servants accompanying them, demanding they get to listen as well. They had chuckled fondly, complying to the whims of a young boy, and his Mother laughed at what she described as his _little antics._

Time passed, after that day at the beach, eating saccharine fruit on the blanket and screaming back at the gulls that circled them, and with it the world aged. 

The trees in their garden became taller, thicker, and their leaves all the greener with every passing season. The horses in their stables went from foal to stallion, siring their own offspring to bounce around the meadow and whinny whenever he came by with swiped sugar from the kitchens. The birds nested, laid, brooded, and then fledged their young, taking off in yearly migration to return next time spring rolled around, ready to start anew.

Then, out at the edge of their family lands, small dirt mounds began to appear, their soil darkening from the wind and rain and regularly sprouting with daisies, primroses, and dandelions. As the sun and moon rose and fell, one turned into two, then three, and then eventually four, time pausing for no moment to end the blackened cloud which hung above the once comfortable house.

Jaskier was not intended to be an only child, and technically he wasn’t, it is just that his siblings never survived. Three never saw birth when intended, arriving months too early and born cold and blue, and the one who did, a delicate little girl who Jaskier, then aged seven, had cradled in his arms with as much care as a duckling, caught a cold not a week later and succumbed in the night.

The laughter stopped, the stories stopped, the gentle hands curled harshly beneath his chin, and the soothing whispered words became shouts of rage and frustration. It was one thing for a rosy-cheeked, bright eyed boy to weave rhymes and plait flowers into braids, and completely another for a teenager being moulded into the perfect heir, on the brink of manhood.

There were times, in the worst of it, when Jaskier found himself hard pressed to find the memories of when his Mother knew she loved him, and when his Father still indulged in his love for epic tales of knights and princesses. It felt as if they were all chased away, mice pursued by farmyard cats, leaving nothing but the mounting disappointment that came with every failed expectation, every missed milestone and unachieved goal.

The choice to leave was harder than many would care to imagine. In fact, it took months of indecision on his part, unsettled worries and flurries of confused thoughts and emotions buzzing in his skull. 

Sometimes he would sit at the breakfast table, listening to the snide comments his parents threw at him and each other, and feel so sick to the stomach he could barely eat, and others, small seconds of moments where his Mother smiled a certain way or he managed to get a surprised laugh out of his Father, when all the heartbreak seemed worth it and he couldn’t picture himself abandoning them at all.

However, there were also times when Jaskier would whip himself up into a frenzy, feverishly stuffing clothes and books and trinkets into the bags stashed beneath the loose floorboards of his bedroom, tears leaking from blackened eyes and lips trembling as he tried to remember everything he couldn’t bear to flee without. The voice within his head would rant and rave, tossing curses and snarky remarks as if he were a coarse farmhand used to the beating sun, hard work, and piss-poor company.

Then, something would stop him, some strange unidentifiable feeling which would make him pause, heart hammering and pulse racing. He would glance around his ruined room, the mess he had flung into chaos, and see it with renewed vision, cleaned and polished by his sobs. The darkness of night would stretch beyond his window, and he would stare at it, swallowing down thick lumps in his throat and wheezing unsteady breaths.

The crushing questions always arose, at that point, thumping the back of his brain as if a woodpecker seeking grubs. They battered the wild logic, tearing all his hopes and fears and _what ifs_ to pitiful shreds.

Where would he go? What would he do? Where would he eat, sleep, _live?_ His knowledge of the outside world was limited to histories and geography, the collection of tax and coin to invest in roads and send off to Kings, not the average cost of bread and wine, the practicalities of shoes and the preservation of food in the bottom of a bag. It was rough, the Continent the other side of his glass pane, and once he left there would be no returning, not less he dared face the wrath waiting for him.

They were his family, and he knew love was harboured somewhere for him. It might be pushed deep down, wrecked on the giant waves of grief, pounded by the anguish of a failing relationship and bruised purple on the misery that came with a son who messed up every opportunity that they shoved his way, however it still had to be there, even just a little.

He only wanted a little.

The questions won, they always did, and the clothes, books, and trinkets were all placed back where they belonged. 

If his parents noticed the red-rimmed, insomnia-bagged eyes the mornings following such unsightly tantrums, they never saw fit to comment.

It was the day the first breath of marriage was drawn that he knew it was time.

The weather had been shit, because of course it had, and his supplies mediocre from what he could swipe in the pantry when all the staff went to bed. His silk doublet had done nothing to save off the biting cold spell signalling oncoming winter, and he was forced to forgo a horse and walk on foot, fearing waking others with the sound of hooves on the cobblestone courtyards. 

Still, despite the odds stacked high against his favour, Jaskier climbed from his window and ran.

In fact, he very literally made for the hills and legged it, staggering and tripping and bartering all the way to Oxenfurt where he promptly flung himself into the crucible and chucked in the nearest liquid metal to hand.

 _Julian Alfred Pankratz_ was burned away, and _Jaskier the Bard_ clambered out the cooling mould.

Even with memories tainted by the bitter taste of the following years, the coast, and that day of pure joy where the breeze was free and so was he, remains with him. No matter where he goes, Jaskier always finds himself naturally drawn back towards the great expanse again and again, basking in its glory and majesty.

The brine, the salt, the almost metallic twang that whisks along the sand and sprays fine droplets onto his face, it soothes something aching within him, allows the tension in his jaw and fight in his shoulders to relax. Days could easily be lost simply staring, watching the grey waves bob out in the distance, witnessing the horizon play catch with the great powers of the sun and moon.

He loves the sea, _adores_ it, cherishes it like hands cradling a baby bird fallen from the nest.

However, at this very moment, Jaskier is getting _too fucking acquainted_ with his beloved ocean.

Unconsciousness releases him from its cold grasp just as the waves break across the shore, sending him rolling and tumbling. Automatically, he makes for the surface, fingers just gracing the air before he gets tugged down again, sucked up by the retreating surf so it can leap and pound against the beach. His cloak, his stupid cloak stitched for a toy and brought by a Witcher, clings to his neck, squeezing an already suffocating throat as it holds him down, despite his helpless struggles.

When he does break through, hair in his eyes and spewing water, it is for nothing but a moment, a second where he gets to realise with dawning dread that he is being scooped up, grabbed by the force of the sea and hovered over sand like a piece of bait for fish to jump and catch. 

There is no time to think, and with eyes squeezed shut, Jaskier flings his arms around his head and curls, bracing for impact.

He smashes into the foreshore, the motion sending him arse over head, then spinning backwards, and then bouncing sideways as he gets flipped up onto more solid ground. Coughs hack against his chest, but they go ignored in favour of rushing to beat the backwards current, his bare feet finding purchase in the water-logged, harder sand. Much like the seaweed that accompanies him, his legs feel limp and useless beneath his body, staggering from the water as his stomach turns, filled with grit.

With a hazy groan, Jaskier collapses to his knees and crawls away from the bubbling white surf, the weight of his tiny body barely leaving imprints in his wake.

Jaskier manages three successful gasps of sweet, blissful air before he promptly vomits, doubling over weakly on his elbow, one hand curling around his middle. The taste is sour and strong, and he gags on it, snot dribbling from his nose. The mess is mirrored by tears, framing his mouth as they slide down dirty cheeks, and his entire body shudders, his free hand digging deep into the sand.

It seems almost cruel for the sun to be out, blazing steadily against his back.

Maybe if the bastard thing decided to bless them in Oxenfurt, he wouldn’t be here.

It takes near two minutes, but eventually his insides settle down. Jaskier spits a few times, sniffing and wiping the back of his shivering hand over his mouth.

“By the Gods…” He whispers, to himself more than anything else, and slowly heaves himself upright, leaning back on his knees. Waves crash behind him, jarring eardrums newly rinsed with seawater.

Grimacing, Jaskier tugs at his clothes, itchy grains of sand clinging to him. It clogs his nose, tangles within his hair, and as he smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he finds it crunching between his teeth as well. More has worked its way beneath his too-long trousers, agitating the grazes on his legs and making them burn.

His displeased expression rots further, turning into a pained wince when his bad shoulder twinges for attention. Jaskier carefully massages the ache, rolling it gently within the socket, fingers pressing deeply into the skin. The limb is tender, not the worst it could be by any means, however the unexpected dip certainly did nothing to improve the already slow healing.

Sucking in air through his teeth, Jaskier forces himself to glance around, peering one way along the beach and then the other.

Something sinks.

“Bollocks.” He intends the word to come out scathing and harsh, a not-quite fuck you to Destiny and Fate and any other twisted mistress who cares to watch. However, instead it leaves his lips as a whimper, a pathetic little thing akin to babes when their mothers leave their line of sight, and whatever the _something_ that sunk was, it decides to plummet even further, reaching all the way to his toes.

The shrunken bard is surrounded by nothing but great expanses of shoreline, framed by high reaching cliffs leading to kingdoms Jaskier probably wasn’t in yesterday and people he doesn’t care to meet. Gulls slide through the air, making use of the notches to roost and preen, gleaming white feathers tended to by sharp yellow beaks, and wader birds scuttle along with the tide, searching for worms and morsels beneath the sand.

There is a path, further up the coast, a jumble of rocks and pebbles making for a treacherous journey for all those who decide to climb, clearly intended for long legs and hands that can actually reach the holds.

Jaskier’s lips thin, wavering, and he allows his head to fall into both palms, repeating, hushed, “ _Bollocks_.”

Things with Geralt hadn’t necessarily been going _well_ , because sweet lady luck decided to shit upon their lives and flounce off somewhere else, but they had been together, at least, the Witcher providing a stable, safe presence when everything else in Jaskier’s world suddenly decided to become large and dangerous and potentially life threatening. The man may be many things, gruff, blunt, rude with a preference for brooding, however in all their time adventuring together, Jaskier has never known him to be meanspirited, either.

Angry, _yes_ , there is very much a temper brewing beneath the grumbling surface, fuelled by the general sense of confusion Geralt seems to hold over any emotion more complex than simple distaste, however the way he handles monsters says more than his limited words are able.

The story Jaskier eventually managed to wheedle out of him about the Striga comes to mind. It could have been so simple to just slaughter the cursed Princess, to slice her with silver and be done with it. Yet Geralt, with his infinite _compassion_ for things mistreated, left in pain, and coaxed astray by means beyond their control, chose to save her, to spend a night battling because he understood that if he didn’t, someone else would come along and chop her head off.

Geralt wasn’t going to leave Jaskier stuck in this body and vulnerable to everything stalking the Continent. In fact, he was unflinching in his assumption they would travel together, dropping his usual search for jobs and coin in favour of focusing all his energy into helping Jaskier, no hint of unwillingness or second guessing to be seen.

He feels responsible for these kinds of things. That is just the type of man Geralt is, stepping in when other suffer at the hand of Destiny.

It is the reason he has a bloody Child Surprise kicking about.

Right now, Jaskier would hazard to guess that Geralt is probably locked up in some cold and dismal cage, left to rot there with no hope of escape. The Witcher wouldn’t have gone down without a fight, no way, but from the brief glances Jaskier was able to steal as they fled, they were wildly outnumbered, and Witcher or no, there would be no getting away from that.

If Kings and Queens thought one Witcher could fend off armies, Geralt’s Kaer Morhen would never have been sacked, and instead _bribed_.

Geralt could be injured, bleeding out from terrible wounds, or concussed and confused as to where he is. He might be poisoned or drugged from the food and water they push into his confined quarters, if they are feeding him at all, or he may even be strapped down to a table, suffering torture and cruel inflictions. The man who invaded their inn room certainly seemed to imply such measures, leaving Geralt to undergo rounds and rounds of pain all because Jaskier dragged them to Oxenfurt following a tantrum.

They should have just gone to bloody Yennefer.

It would have been easier. For all she might huff and tut and roll her eyes, the Witch never lets people to waste away if she is on hand to help. She takes her fair profit, mind, her heart isn't _that_ soft and squishy, however it was not as cold as stone either, no matter what unfavourable lyrics Jaskier spills whenever she is not in his presence.

Still, the teasing would have been immense, and there was no way Yennefer could let something like this slide without baptising him with some new nickname or quip. For as meaningless as those jabs are, and they are meaningless because she could do a whole lot worse with very little effort, they still always manage to wiggle under his skin and send him bristling, not helped by the fact that his comebacks are always several feet behind, lacking in his usual whit and wickedness.

Maybe she reminds him too much of his Mother, on her snarky days after a bottle or two of wine.

The thought of going to Yennefer felt humiliating, and fuck it all, Jaskier is adult enough to admit he has more than a touch of the average-man’s pride. He cares about these things, as petty as they are, his clothes, his appearance, his epithets and titles, and knowing someone was out there, actively ruining all his hard-earned reputation for the delight of a joke, sends his blood boiling.

Melitele preserve him, he is turning into his Father.

He should have gone to her, if not for his sake then for Geralt’s. Whatever the thing is between the Witcher and the Mage, the weird something-or-other they are constantly dancing around, it only gets worse the longer they are apart. The last time, they went nearly a year without tumbling into each other’s laps (and Jaskier would know, he was there), and when their paths collided once again and they went off to make like rabbits, they vanished for three days straight.

When the pair returned, it went unmentioned, and Yennefer eventually sauntered away, leaving him and Geralt to slide back into normality and head off again, as if their paths hadn’t crossed at all.

Jaskier would never voice this out loud, but it hurts, how trusting Geralt is with the woman he barely knows outside the bedsheets, yet here Jaskier is, tending to his injuries, watching his back, bartering and flirting his way into getting them rooms for the night for half the cost. Granted, he has been no use as of late, but there is only so much someone his current size can do around a campsite.

Then again, Geralt has been good to him recently, though how much of that is his usual sense of obligation towards all creatures in need of curses broken, and how much is reciprocation for Jaskier’s offered hands of help, is hard to say. There must surely be a low level of general care there, somewhere, deep down beneath the growling, huffing, wolfish snappishness, separated from the weighted burdens of responsibility and forming simply from their shared companionship.

Deep enough to be mistaken for constipation, probably.

In recent days, that care, as tiny as it may be and practically non-existent in Jaskier’s eyes, has been overlapped and overpowered by clear frustration. Geralt has still to yell at him, but it is bubbling beneath the surface, nonetheless. For one who can be as patient as a saint while hunting, his wick is quick to burn when dealing with people.

“It’s getting dangerous.” Geralt had said, pushing away his dinner to give Jaskier his undivided attention. 

He rarely does that, focus onto Jaskier with everything he has. Normally his hearing is always elsewhere, listening to the other drinkers in the tavern or eyes drifting towards the care of his horse. Having Geralt’s entire being pinpointed onto him only ever occurs when the subject at hand is serious, and the Witcher wants to drive a message home. Jaskier has learned to obey the words spoken in these moments, as often the consequences of disobedience are _not_ worth it.

Perhaps it was the hardened tone, or maybe it was the way the golden eyes struck Jaskier to the spot, however whatever mild amusement they (he) were clawing at to survive the situation in good humour all but evaporated in that second. It left Jaskier feeling cold, uncomfortable, the familiar sense of leaving people disappointed after having their expectations reach higher than he could jump wiggling in his gut.

Granted, Geralt rarely held expectations for him, he is merely a bard, but it was Jaskier who dragged them to Oxenfurt, to a Mage who was useless and a toy shop which left Geralt embarrassed and uneasy.

Shame made his voice stiff. “It wasn’t my _intention_ to keep falling off.”

“Just because you didn’t intend for something to happen, doesn’t mean it didn’t, or that it won’t happen again.”

Geralt has never been one to mince words, not in the same way Jaskier does, and sometimes he is convinced that half the Witcher’s troubles don’t actually stem from misheard tales and whispers of butchers, but rather the innate ability of stating things as they are and refusing to acknowledge the consequences because if it.

So, there was no lessening the blow of Geralt’s observations. It was an honest feat that Jaskier’s head hadn’t been bitten off already.

“I don’t like Yennefer.” Jaskier muttered, more to save face than anything else, unwilling to show the little boy who backed down and cowered under piercing words.

“I know.”

“She’s a bitch.” He pressed.

“She is.”

“She’ll never give up teasing me about this.” Allowing the defeat to shine in his tone, Jaskier found himself looking away, unable to bear what must be relief gazing down above him. “She’ll remind me _constantly_.”

“Either we go to a Mage we know will bring you back to normal, or we find a stranger to perform magic on you. It’s the…Lesser evil.”

There were smirks when this first began. Now there was only the irritated logic of someone rapidly approaching the end of their tether. Jaskier should have listened straight away, instead of kicking up a fuss like a spoilt child. Terrible nicknames and new wisecracks aside, at least he would be _himself_ again, and Geralt would be back to ignoring his regular string of music and song.

He is a bother on the best of days, Jaskier is not stupid enough to be unable see it, and despite what Geralt believes, Jaskier _can_ read a room. However, he has always worked on the idea that if Geralt truly didn’t want him around, then it would be pretty easy for him to sneak away and leave. The likelihood of Jaskier could successfully track him down and follow him across miles is as slim as a leaf.

This is why, with all his pushing and goading, he works hard never to go too far, shove too many boundaries into places they ought not to be and listen when the grunts of begrudging acceptance become emotionally charged. Being a jokester is one thing, being a nuisance is completely another.

This little adventure seems to have not only tripped him over that line but send him falling face down in the dirt with his arse in the air, as well.

A small splash of water against his toes makes Jaskier startle, and he twists to see the tide closer than it was when he scrambled free, white seafoam stretching out to brush against him. The threat lingers, like a pacing animal waiting for prey to get close enough to the metal bars to strike, before retreating back to be sucked into the next crash of waves.

If he continues to wallow here any longer, he will be right back where he started, getting swept out into open ocean to become fish fodder.

Clearing his throat, Jaskier sniffs, rubbing his fingers over his eyes to swipe away the moisture. Grit scrapes against his skin, harsh and sharp, and he winces, drawing back his hands to turn them over, examining the dirt.

With a sigh that frankly hurts to breathe, he climbs to his feet, taking a second to sway and gain his balance before shakily taking off in the direction of the rock path. Overhead, the gulls continue to play with the winds, their cries harmonising with the sea, and the patter of feet from the wader birds applaud their efforts.

Jaskier curls his arms around himself.

“You better not try to eat me.” He mumbles glumly towards them as he passes, their eyes curiously tilting his way.

It is a lonely walk towards the path, the only company the feathered beasts and the beating of the bright, midday sun. His mouth is uncomfortably dry, the salt doing it no favours, and pretty soon Jaskier finds himself humming mindless tunes to keep his thoughts lingering on his own unhappiness.

Reaching the line of sea-rolled pebbles scattered around the bottom of the jagged, uneven pathway, he pauses, eyeing it over with no small amount of trepidation. If he was to fall there would be no safety net to catch him, no gloved hand of a Witcher to save him from a broken neck or spine, just his own ability to catch himself and force his arms to suffer the brunt of the damage. To slip from a rock could very well be the end of him, and the few people in the world who would care enough to notice would be none the wiser of his coastline grave.

However, for all he walked away from his family, Pankratz blood still runs thick within his veins, and it is no mistake to dub them as _stubborn gits_ when they want to be. With the sound of the ever-approaching waves behind him, Jaskier juts out his chin and marches forward, greeting the smoothed pebbles with dogged determination.

Progress is slow, unaided by the fine coat of green slime smothered across the stone. What it is, he has no idea, Jaskier has never been one for plants outside those of a poetic nature, but what he _does_ know is that it makes his life bloody difficult. The junk smears against his clothes, sliding his hands out the notches as he tries to clamber upwards, the stink tickling his nose and making him gag.

A few hours in, he slips, whacking his chin as he goes skidding down onto the flat top of a rock below.

His yelp must ring for miles, and Jaskier collapses into a mess of limbs, allowing himself a good half an hour for a cry, some wild cursing, and gentle prodding into his mouth to check if he has managed to crack his teeth into pieces. Luckily, if it can be called that, everything turns up fine, if sore and beaten, and there is only the faintest taste of blood on his tongue.

The relief is bitter, and while tinged with the blessing of knowing he will not yet be dubbed the _Toothless Bard_ , it sits sour in his mouth all the same.

“Fucking stuff.” He complains loudly as he wipes the junk off his hands and onto his trousers. Then, with a harsh hiss of pure anger, a scream spews up from his chest, flying from his mouth to bellow in an untamed, uncouth holler, “ _Fucking_ potion and _fucking_ Yennefer and _fucking Oxenfurt_ and fucking fuck _fuck!”_

Normally such an outburst help.

This doesn’t.

Hanging his head, Jaskier sighs, pushing down a wave of chaotic emotion until it only bubbles restlessly in the base of his stomach. Forcing himself to his feet, he starts off again, hiking among the pebbles and scaling the sheer sides of the rocks with a methodical blandness that weighs as heavy as the stone he climbs.

By now all the aches and pains of his body have become a numbing background noise, from the bruises and scrapes to the twinging of his shoulder, and in their place, hunger decides to make itself heard. It gnaws at him from the inside, begging for rich breads, sweet fruits, or even just a stew filled with miscellaneous meats of dubious origin.

At a particularly loud growl, Jaskier mutters, “Yes, yes, I hear you.”

There is nothing to be done about it, though. He can’t miracle up a banquet or wish a buffet table into existence. Cooked fish won’t rain merrily down from the clouds, and the decadent treats Jaskier sometimes spies in the marketplace and pays good coin to share with Geralt rest miles away in towns he will only be trampled in.

Geralt is not as subtle as he thinks when he accepts such treats, no matter how far he turns his head. 

The sight is a delight to watch.

It takes until he is halfway up for Jaskier to realise he won’t make it to the top before nightfall. Chest heaving and skin soaked with sweat, he pauses, blinking up at the seeming miles stretching out above him before turning to glance out to sea.

The sun is slowly diving down into the ocean, obliterating the sky with pink and orange and steadily dawning purple. The waves lap against the shore, further inland than they were earlier and gleaming with white horses as they curl and break against the sand. The water itself has dipped from a stark blue to something deeper, darkening with the fading light. 

If Jaskier had his lute to hand, he might be tempted to wax lyrics over the beauty, maybe make a song of it, comparing the duality of the seas grace and deadly power with a scorned woman or a certain fearsome individual he knows.

Despite himself, Jaskier feels himself smirk.

Geralt would _hate_ that.

Jaskier has heard it said that to learn how to fight, one must first learn how to dance, and that could ring no more truth than with the Witcher. For all his brutish, gruntish demeanour, the times Jaskier has managed to spy his sword wielding antics has certainly proved that he also contains a certain amount of grace, quick on his feet and ready to sweep and duck and dive.

In another lifetime, where the man was free to grow as he was intended, human and happy and bright, Jaskier could see him becoming a dancer, or perhaps something along the lines of the travelling acrobatics or circus acts he sees prowling the Continent, the ones which involve lifting women and throwing them high into the air.

Or, more likely, Geralt would simply hide those talents away and work with horses.

Hunger protests its lack of indulgence again, and Jaskier grimaces, pathetically clutching at his still damp cloak in an attempt to keep the steadily cooling temperature at bay. His grip on the material becomes so tight the skin of his knuckles churn to white milk. 

As far as he can tell, he has managed to climb over the line where the sea will rise during the night, so as long as no ocean storm builds on the horizon and sends the waves barrelling up the cliffs, he should be fine to make his bed here.

Glancing around, Jaskier weighs up his options of solid rock, hard pebbles, or a slightly softer pebble which looks as if it will topple down the pile at a moment’s notice, promptly decides not to tempt Fate, and plonks himself down on the rock.

Naturally, his eyes are drawn out to sea.

He tries to ignore the cold.

“When a humble bard,” The soft hum rises from his throat, cracking from a lack of water, “Graced to ride along…”

Singing is something to fill the quiet.

Jaskier discovered as much after he fled his home. Suddenly his days were lacking in remarks, comments, and unimpressed observations, leaving only the quietness and the whirling thoughts in his mind. There were many self-doubts stalking him the days following his escape, all those _what ifs_ returning in full force, and it was out of sheer desperation he began to sing the whispers out of existence, replacing them with sweet tales, extravagant lyrics, and noble deeds instead.

Maybe that is why he is always singing around Geralt. That man carries every poor thought on the Continent inside his head.

Huffing, Jaskier’s tired eyes catch movement between the waves, and moments later something breeches the surface, puffing out a breath of air and spray and sucking another back in again.

It is some kind of monster, though _what_ , he doesn’t have a clue, long and bumpy and completely at ease in the murky deep. Its tail, a forked thing ringed with green and blue, hits against the water’s surface, a splash flinging out as if a giant stone had been dropped down from the heavens, and moments later a smaller beast joins it, diving between the waves and making all kinds of excited noises.

A mother and her baby, if Jaskier had to guess.

Away from the sight of humans, they are completely relaxed, twisting smoothly in the brine. The mother lets the offspring give chase, leaving obvious trails of white bubbles and rolling onto her back when caught. The youngster wiggles with excitement, bobbing about until the mother hurries off again.

If this is what Geralt sees in the beasts he slays, Jaskier has no idea how he manages to keep his sword true. It is like killing a pup knowing one day it will roll onto its back and whine for belly rubs.

The last of the sun melts away, and the creatures, with one final gulp of air, vanish down into deeper depths, leaving Jaskier sat alone on his rock. The heat in the air dissolves, and, drawing up his legs to curl them against his chest, he huddles stiffly, lips pinching as he tries to reign in the prickling of tears behind his eyes.

 _Preserve the water_ , Geralt’s voice tells him plainly inside his head, _or dehydration will be a swifter blow._

Scanning over his beloved coast for a final time, Jaskier lets his body slump sideways, drawing up the hood over his face and praying to whoever decides to listen that he won’t be swept away into the endless black as he sleeps.

****

*****

Jaskier has dealt with some rude awakenings in his lifetime.

As he grew from boy to teenager, his new body discovered the joys of long mornings snuggled beneath warm blankets and a soft pillow, a joy which made it near impossible to resist dozing the day away. At first, it had been lovely, lounging without care as he daydreamed every comfortable thought that happened to float through his mind, stretched out like a cat in a sunny warm spot.

Of course, it didn’t last.

His Father, who by then had lost any spark which once flittered behind his eyes, was less than pleased at the development. So much so, in fact, that alongside Jaskier’s sleeping in, he developed the habit of rousing his son himself, often with a nice, large bucket of near-frozen river water.

That was fun, waking spluttering for air and scrambling up the bed, and it was _always_ followed with some kind of lecture, normally of the shouting variety.

Once he left home, the next series of unwelcome leaping into wakefulness came from the terror of the unknown, when Jaskier would all but fly into consciousness unable to remember where he was and how he got there. Sometimes he would scream, which either startled every woodland creature half to death or earned him a booting out an inn, and sometimes his voice would be soundless, too struck by fear to make a noise.

Paranoia was his unwanted friend, sparked from the dread of getting mugged by bandits and the worry of slinking monsters surrounding his lone little camp, mauling him to death with the fanged teeth and rotten breath.

Not long after he ran, Jaskier damn near sliced a poor woman in half with a second-hand dagger, sending her scrambling back with a yelp. The lady, he has forgotten her name now, had only been trying to help, wanting to check he was still breathing having noticed his sorry excuse of a campfire from the nearby main road.

Jaskier apologised profusely and escorted her all the way to the next town to make up for it.

Thank the Gods she took him in good humour.

The next series of wakeup calls came while he studied in Oxenfurt. These were of a distinctly different nature.

They were tavernkeepers chucking him out on his arse cheeks after a night of constant drinking, fine maidens and masters fed up when he overstays his welcome the following morning, and, on one memorable occasion, being shaken awake by a beautiful redhead as their partner approached a _very_ occupied bedroom.

That instance involved dangling out a window for ten minutes and displaying his exposed bottom to a very flushed woman opening her market stall.

This tale Jaskier keeps to himself.

Now he has joined forces with Geralt, things have changed again. Nights out in the woods are safer, making easier to lull into a warm, deep sleep, and apart from the odd kick whenever Geralt demands they leave at the crack of dawn, waking comes in the form of the fire being relit, bags being organised, and Roach getting tended to. Blinking blearily to the sight of boiling water, oat porridge breakfast, and a tight jawed but relaxed Geralt has become Jaskier’s new normal.

As a bonus, Witchers are known for their mutations, and there is not a rabbit, beast, nor scorned lover in the entire Continent who could approach their camp or room without Geralt knowing about it.

At least, that was the impression Jaskier received. Clearly his judgement has been a little skewed, somewhere along the line.

All of this, however, is to say that despite shrieking his lungs into oblivion, the giant hand which plucks him off his rock and holds him high in the stark morning sun is not the poorest way Jaskier has ever been woken.

It is near the top of the list, though.

Gasping as all the air gets forcibly squeezed from his lungs, Jaskier splutters, eyes instantly wide, “W-What-”

“Hey, Tomas!” A voice, female and brash, bellows loudly, practically rattling his brain between his ears. His hands rush to cover them.

“Huh?” Someone calls up from the shoreline.

“Come ‘ere!”

“Why?” Tomas asks, sounding bored. 

“I found somethin’.”

Tentatively meeting the young woman’s liquid green eyes, Jaskier blinks up at her dumbly, ginger hair curling around her prominent cheekbones. The clothes she wears are old and worn, used to hard work, multiple washes, and dirt.

They stare at one another for a long moment, nothing but the sea breeze and waves interrupting them.

Then, with a quick clear of his throat, Jaskier plasters his face with his best showman’s grin, bowing as dramatically as he is able in the awkward position.

“Beautiful, sweet woman of the sunset hair, it is a delight to make your acquaintance! My name is Jaskier, and I know this must all seem a bit strange, however I promise I am but a man, a _bard_ , to be exact.” Tilting his head, he allows his body to fall into the familiar charade of charm he normally puts to work in courts and royal circles, tapping against the fingers holding him. “If you’re confused, I completely understand, I was too, however if you-”

“Tomas!” The woman yells again, startling him silly. “It _talks!”_

Striding up the rocks as if it didn’t take Jaskier hours to do so, the young man, no more than twenty-something, crosses his arms and huffs. Over his back he has a bag with drawstring straps, which rattles with the sound of shells as he walks. His dark hair is windswept and dotted with sand and salt.

“What?”

Squawking like a strangled chicken, Jasker grapples for purchase as he gets thrusted forward, the world momentarily blurring as his brain goes bouncing around his skull. His stomach practically bounds into his airway, and he chokes on it, gagging twice. “ _Oh Gods_ -”

“Think it’s a pixie.” The woman says, waggling him for emphasis.

Jaskier gulps thickly, steadying himself as a nice, throbbing headache settling behind his eyes. He rubs it away, then comments thinly, “I’m afraid not, my sweet dear, as I said, I’m a-”

Leaning closer to get a better look, Tomas peers curiously at him, squinting his eyes. “Ain’t never seen a pixie before.”

A long finger goes to poke him, and Jaskier scowls, shoving it away before it can knock into his forehead. “Because they _don’t exist_. If you would just-”

“Aye. I don’t think many people have.” The woman hums, speaking right over him with a tone that gets Jaskier twisting to glance at her, finding a very unnerving, very pointed expression on her freckled face.

Tomas’ eyes brighten, and he whacks her on the arm. “Hey, d’you think Lady-”

Nodding, the woman’s face splits into a grin. “Rare, good for medicines, good for _showin’ off_ , it’s right up her street.”

“A bargain.” Tomas smiles widely, hope lacing his words. “Our missed rent for _this_.”

“I’m not a _this_ or an _it!_ For fuck’s sake, could you just listen to me?”

They don’t, too wrapped up in whatever half conversation they are having over his head. Their faces are alight, as if some great relief has crashed against them, and Jaskier can do nothing but watch as they come to some kind of decision and start up the rocky path towards the cliff, scrambling on the loose pebbles.

The world rushes beneath his dangling feet, a threatening drop that stills his pathetic struggling against the unwavering grip. Around him, Jaskier’s vision begins to swim, the careless way he is being held jolting and shaking and jarring his body as if he were a bottle of seasoning rather than a living being. Dehydration, hunger, and exhaustion join the mix, mushing his insides into a grumbling mass of gizzards as he fruitlessly rubs his forehead, willing the pounding into sodding off.

Reaching the end of the rock path and the start of solid ground, the beach retreats from view, the pair taking off down a dirt road. It skirts along fields, spreading out over the tops of the cliffs like butter across bread.

For a moment, despite his rather unpleasant ordeal, Jaskier can’t help but nurse the familiar twangs of sadness within his chest at the retreating sea.

“Gods, Geralt. What the fuck did we get into?”

Maybe the universe hears him, it wouldn’t surprise Jaskier. Whatever great powers which rest beyond his comprehension, controlling the world like a noble girl and her dolls and making fun of their petty little lives, they have been mocking him for decades.

What is one more _fuck you_ in the grand scheme of things?

Though, it is fair to say that this is unexpected.

Jaskeir stills to a frozen statue, his mouth parting in a gasp so sharp he damn near hacks on it.

There, trailing along the cliff’s edge, leading a limping horse with its head down and dealing with a poor leg of his own, is _Geralt._

All thoughts of headaches and hunger drain from his mind, filling instantly with joy and hope and a kind of longing he has never felt before, sending his heart in every direction within his chest.

Struggling in the woman’s hand, Jaskier shrieks, _“Geralt!”_

The Witcher doesn’t react. He simply continues his long, lonely walk along the cliff, the silhouette of a defeated man.

“Geralt! Hey, Geralt!” Desperation clings to him, chewing on Jaskier’s insides like a starved mongrel on entrails, and he thrashes wildly as they head into a line of trees, branches and brush reaching to obscure his view. _“Geralt!”_

They are too far away, his lungs are too small, and for all a Witcher’s hearing is good, Jaskier is competing against the sounds of waves, Roach, the wind, and whatever brooding thought is currently being brewed in Geralt’s dense skull. The Witcher’s head is turned away, facing the beach, hiding his expression and not giving the two humans an ounce of thought.

In fact, he is probably actively trying to avoid their attention.

“Geralt, _please!_ I’m _here!”_

“Oh, _shut up!”_ Tomas snaps, snatching him from the woman’s and squeezing hard enough to make Jaskier cringe.

“No! Fuck off! Let me go!” Moisture threatens to spill from behind his eyes and he kicks out, missing the arm by miles. His pulse pounds heavily within his ears, as if seawater has clogged them all over again. “Geralt!”

Barely a breath later, Jaskier is unceremoniously dumped into Tomas’ bag, landing heavily onto the collected periwinkles and limpets, the shells clattering. Sharp edges snag on his hard-earned clothes, tearing strips and ripping holes. Scrambling to his feet, Jaskier glares at the indifferent face peering down above him, his hands fisted so tightly that the salt dry skin threatens to split across his knuckles.

The bag gets drawn shut, and all light evaporates, leaving him alone and trapped in the darkness.

Jaskier falls to his knees, wincing mildly at the pain that flares, and allows himself his second nice, long, pathetic cry in as many days.

He is pretty sure he has earned it.

He remains there for a while.

Time is a tricky thing, deceiving when not given the proper amount of attention, and as the bag shakes with Tomas’ footsteps, it seems to drag out like cat claws in an expensive curtain.

Collapsing onto his side, Jaskier curls up into a pathetic ball, drawing his hood over his face.

Geralt had been right there. He had escaped whatever trials and tribulations were promised in Oxenfurt and was _right there_ , so tantalisingly close it was cruel.

Both he and Roach have been hurt, too. The majority of the fight on the bridge was a mystery to Jaskier, trapped inside the tanker with Geralt’s palm covering the top, however going by the sheer amount of noise, it had been no three-on-one drunken fistfight.

Geralt is good in a fight, damn good, but even he can be overwhelmed.

Then again, perhaps the injuries stem from whatever torture was promised in their inn room, at the hands of a vengeful father misguided with grief.

“ _Fuck_.”

More heat dribbles down his cheeks, and Jaskier batters it clumsily away. His fingers tremble, and silently he clutches at them, trying to still the jittery movements as he hides away in his cloak, only the rattle of shells accompanying him in his pitiful enclosure.

Life remains nothing but shells, tears, and darkness for a very, very long time.

Then, _finally_ , Tomas comes to a halt, and the bag opens above him, bringing sweet air and blinding light. 

For a second, Jaskier is foolish enough to bask in it, not caring for the red and snotty mess of his face and clumped hair, however all too quickly that pleasure is flicked away, and a large hand reaches down like a spider descending on its prey, picking him out of his brine-stinking hole.

This time his arms are pinned beneath the fingers, a claustrophobic encasing he struggles against.

They are in what seems to be the main living room of a rather small and cluttered house, clearly lacking in care and littered with empty jars of ale and mead. The smell makes Jaskier’s lip curl, the kind of stink which comes from a home not regularly cleaned and left to rot in its own filth, with an aftertaste that speaks of a certain type of drug some of his fellow students used to dabble in after long nights struggling through essays. 

The place is disgusting, and he judges the pair all the more for it.

On the table beside the bag he was just freed from, a bucket of water sits almost completely filled, and as Tomas draws Jaskier up to his face to eye him critically, the woman, whose name he is still yet to learn, goes hurrying out the door.

“I’ll be back as quick as I can!” She calls over her shoulder, letting the door slam behind her.

Glaring at Tomas with all his might, Jaskier channels his best Witcher impersonation, squaring his jaw and his shoulders.

Tutting, Tomas dumps Jaskier onto the table, and swiftly starts to undress him.

The Witcher impersonation goes soaring out the window.

“Woah! Wait, hey-”

“You stink.” Tomas says flatly, whipping off the cloak and dunking it into the bucket while keeping one hand firmly holding Jaskier’s arm. “We need to clean you.”

“You need to _let me go_.”

“No.”

The shirt and trousers come off next, Tomas tossing them in with the cloak and cleaning them with one hand. Under his grip, Jaskier struggles, fighting fruitlessly against his arm pinned between the forefinger and thumb.

The nakedness is not so much the issue, Jaskier has been bare bummed more times than he can remember and self-consciousness and embarrassment are not in his vocabulary regarding it, however after his less than stellar dip in the bathtub however many nights ago, the thought of going diving into a full bucket he has no hope of touching the bottom of without drowning is less than appealing.

Last time he had Geralt, his Witcher in shining white armour.

This time, he has a man who lives in a house that reeks worse than a donkey’s arse.

Without warning, Tomas scoops Jaskier onto his palm and drops him into the freezing water.

He sinks deeply, his feet not once touching any kind of solid surface before a few panicked strokes and kicks get him back up into the air, swallowing down several mouthfuls to fill his lungs as he does. Coughing harshly, Jaskier treads the water.

“Hush.” Tomas chastises, grabbing a large bar of white soap and starting up on Jaskier’s clothes, working them into the sickly-sweet fragrance and not caring how it effects the fabric.

Large bubbles of lather go floating by, reflecting Jaskier’s battered face. The curve of the Mage’s nail still sits heavily against his cheek, he notices, and the dark undersides of his eyes have not dimmed a bit, now joined by yet another bruise where he wacked the rock with his chin yesterday. Jaskier grimaces.

“Y’know, you could have just _asked_ me to bathe.” He says pointedly, gently drifting towards the edge of the bucket so he can cling to the side. “I prefer not to be as filthy as a swine, as well.”

Tomas hums, somehow with even less emotion than Geralt.

“I’ll also take this lovely moment to remind you, once again, that I’m _not_ a pixie, never have been, never will be.”

“Hm.”

All the pains of the last few days leave Jaskier’s arms weak, however with a bit of a huff and some muted flailing, less he thrashes against the water and causes a disturbance, he hefts up onto the edge, his tongue sticking out with the effort. A deep-rooted ache rolls with his shoulder, the poor, abused bones demanding a care he can’t provide.

His mouth blabbers, the same way Jaskier has learned to keep Geralt focused away from things he would rather keep quiet. “I’m human, a bard, currently under an unfortunate curse…Spell…Potion…Thing, which was originally intended for my travel companion. An unfortunate tale of mixed up drinks, I’m afraid, so if you’re after epics of beasts and dragons, I can’t help you. Do you want to know who my companion is? You’ve probably heard of him.”

“Hm.”

“Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier announces grandly, watching Tomas out the corner of his eye. The man is preoccupied with organising his clothes, setting them out by a candle to dry. Nothing on his face shows any indication that he realises his not-pixie prize is currently perched with both legs dangling over the bucket, ready to subtly slip down. “The White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken and Witcher of Kaer Morhen.”

“Hm.”

Sweet _Melitele’s_ tits, at least knows how to read Geralt’s tuneless grunts. This man could be replaced with a pig feasting on slop and there would be not an ounce of difference.

Just as he is about to slide to the table, his escape is promptly interrupted, Jaskier getting snatched up and dunked messily back into the water.

He sinks again, however this time he has the benefit of being at least somewhat prepared, rising with only a single cough and a glare.

“You said you can wash yourself.” Tomas states, indicating to the bobbing bubbles bouncing on the water’s ripples. “So, wash yourself.”

“I’m going to point out right now that it is _very hard_ to clean when you’re in enough water to drown.”

Tomas raises an eyebrow. “You drown in the bathtub then?”

“ _No_ , but I don’t have to try stay afloat, either.” Jaskier snips. “This water’s miles too deep.”

With a put-upon sigh, which is wholly unfair and uncalled for considering Jaskier didn’t even want to be here, Tomas grabs him again, holding him tight as he carelessly tips most of the water out onto the floor. The puddle sprays out, splashing violently and instantly soaking a pile of old furs sat strewn nearby and a corner of a tatty rug, a long trail of milky white soap and bubbles dribbling in a long trail that will ultimately leave the ground slippery later.

When he gets tossed back in, Jaskier lands in water that only rises up to his waist and walls that tower above him like the cliffs of the beach.

“Better?” Tomas says, exaggerated, the sarcasm practically dripping. He throws the soap bar at him, Jaskier yelping and ducking out of its way as it bounces down into the water. “Hurry up.”

With little other choice, Jaskier mutters darkly beneath his breath and sets about falling into the monotonous task of washing, deliberately turning his back to face the other direction. He hears Tomas scoff at that and blatantly ignores it.

Scooping a handful of soap into his palms, he sets about working up a lather, scrubbing it thoroughly over his body and kneading into the patches of dirt and grime and grit. The sweat of the last few days clings to him, as if thick honey over his skin, and washing it away feels more luxurious than any of the silks, perfumes, and jewels offered his way as a teenager still ripe son-in-law material for any Lord or Lady seeking to find a potential alliance with their daughters.

If only they all possessed a crystal ball to gaze upon and see the future, they would realise he was a waste of time and send their daughters scuttling elsewhere to flutter pretty eyelashes and whisper sweet words.

Jaskier nearly snorts at the thought, of them all peering to catch a glance at whatever bright and powerful future he was set to have, only to find he demeans himself to being the peasant equivalent of a court jester, all the while clinging to the coattails of none other than a _Witcher_. There is no doubt there would be screams of horror, probably a bit of fainting from the mothers, and a lot of shouting from the fathers who believed his interests were swaying their way.

“My precious little rose, my blossom, my stinking white lily with all the personality of an _irate snail_ won’t be sullied to a life of this!” They would cry, and then turn to his parents with, “How dare you allow your heir to defile your family name like this! How dare you lead us on!”

Maybe it is best there was no crystal ball, on second thought.

The soap’s fragrance is all the more pungent up close, far too sharp for Jaskier’s tastes, which says something considering he usually enjoys the stronger stuff. He has been steering clear of it the last few years, on account it often overpowers Geralt’s senses, and considering he is the one with two very big swords keeping them from getting gobbled up by wayward monsters, that is generally not a good idea.

Perhaps using all his subtler, more muted scents have dulled his senses somewhat, making the soap all the harsher in his nose now.

Still, there is absolutely no denying the glee of feeling clean again, washing away all traces of the beach and the fall. While there is no way he would ever admit it out loud, running his fingers through his hair and dredging out the salt feels divine, and he is thankful for this small moment, at least.

Jaskier basks, taking his time.

The grazes on his knees are red, but not in a way which is overly concerning. Ideally, he would sooth them down with a salve and maybe a bandage or two, however asking will only get him snapped at and going by the state of the house, he doubts there are such ointments here anyway.

The loud bang of the door sends him jumping, the woman’s voice following a moment later with an obvious, “I’m back.”

“Did you get it?”

“Aye.”

By this point, Jaskier is unsurprised by the hand reaching for him, simply allowing himself to be drawn from the water and set on the table beside his clothes. A torn piece of rag gets dumped over his head.

“Oi!”

“Get dry and dressed.” Tomas instructs.

The shirt has been given enough time to dry, though reeks overpoweringly of the soap, and for the most part his trousers have too, minus a few patches at the bottoms of the legs which he rolls up so they fit better. The string belt has not survived the cleaning quite as well, the ends unravelling from their once tight twists, but it is still able to keep the trousers at his waist without fear of falling, so Jaskier resigns himself to using it for a while longer.

He finds his cloak, made of a thicker material, still thoroughly damp, enough that if he wore it Jaskier is sure he would end up sick. Instead of dawning it over his shoulders, he rolls it up carefully and holds it in his arms.

The woman sets something heavy down onto the table behind him, and Jaskier turns.

“Get in.” The woman demands, pointing to the open door.

Jaskier looks at the birdcage.

Jaskier looks at her.

“ _Fuck_ you.” He sneers, his lips curling. “I’m not some bloody-”

Cutting off with a yelp, Jaskier goes staggering gracelessly forward as a large finger flicks him hard on the spine, tripping over his own feet from the force of the whack. His toes collide with the bottom edge of the cage, and with a smack loud enough to resonate, Jaskier goes falling face first inside.

The door closes behind him, shoving his feet out the way and locking tightly with a key.

Groaning, Jaskier clambers up onto his elbows.

It is a small thing, his new _enclosure_ , made from copper and, going by the vicious scrubbing marks that speak of recently removed dirt, likely to have made its way through several rounds of owners. A few of the bars are dented, and what was previously kept in here Jaskier does _not_ want to know, however none of them are morphed in a way that could aid in any kind of escape.

“When I said I was a bard,” He starts, twisting to shoot daggers in his audience’s direction, “I didn’t mean you should treat me like a _songbird_.”

As is his new norm, he goes ignored, the two falling into a hushed discussion and heading off towards the other side of the room.

Rolling his eyes skyward, Jaskier clambers to his feet and sets about hanging his cloak up on the bird perch dangling in the middle, taking a moment to simply watch it drip puddles on the metal floor. The copper feels bumpy and chilled beneath his feet, and not for the first time Jaskier finds himself wishing for something as simple as a pair of shoes.  
At the sound of approaching footsteps, he tiredly levels Tomas and the woman with a look.

“You’re immoral little shits, do you know that?”

This time, his response is a light scoff, and then total pitch darkness as a heavy cloth drapes over the cage. The sudden change is enough to make him squeak in surprise, and then do so again when the cage is picked up, bouncing with the beat of walking as they leave the house and head out into the wider world beyond.

For a good minute, Jaskier contemplates spending the journey yelling every insult, cuss, and colourful piece of language that he knows, and by the Gods he knows some good ones, being a university student has a diverse range of perks, after all. 

After a moment’s contemplation, he elects against this. He is tired, and fed up, and still battling hunger and exhaustion, there are far better things to do than spend an hour screeching his throat raw.

If he is going to be kept in the dark, he might as well get a nap out of it.

****

*****

His first bout of glorious sleep in however long is briskly broken by the sound of knuckles banging against wood, the creaking of the door, and voices.

When Jaskier is fully able to drag himself to full waking consciousness, a time in which he realises his cloak has fallen off the perch and covered him with an uncomfortable damp blanket, he registers a new voice which has joined the conversation, dominating over Tomas and the woman. 

It is female, plummy, one which speaks of status and authority, the type that used to arrive at Jaskier’s home and meander through the halls with his Mother, leaving a nit-picking trail of passive-aggressive quips and judgement.

His Mother was always at her worst after those visits. The arguments between her and his Father were stupendous.

“So, let me see if I understand this correctly.” The new woman says, as calm as anything. The way her voice travels speaks of them being indoors, probably some kind of study or living room tailored for greeting guests. “You skip on your rent, you arrive unannounced at my home, and you demand that, instead of coin, you barter with some frivolous trinket.”

Whoever is holding the cage bounces nervously on their feet, and slowly Jaskier gets to his, blinking wide in the dark. He holds his cloak to his chest, willing his heart to quieten so he can listen clearly.

“A-Aye.” Tomas agrees.

With a noise of displeasure, the new woman tuts against her teeth, the type of sound someone makes when they disagree with their supplied meal but only wish to make their host uncomfortable with their displeasure rather than voice it loudly to create a scene. A chair creaks as she stands, and the heavy folds of probably an expensive dress shift as she strides forwards towards them.

“My collection is vast and my patience thin, what, in the entire Continent, could you possibly barter in exchange for my lost rent?”

“It’s…” The red-haired woman gulps. “It’s a pixie, Ma’am.”

That garners a pause. “A pixie?”

“A livin’, breathin’ pixie.”

“And this is not some kind of trick? My guards will strike you down if they find out as such.”

“No, Ma’am, on my ‘onour as a man.” Tomas states, awkwardly bold.

The new woman moves closer again. “Well, I will not go without seeing this so-called pixie before agreeing to your deal. Show me.”

With that, the world suddenly explodes with light.

Instinctively, Jaskier shrinks back, dropping his cloak in favour of flinging up his hands to shade his eyes, squinting against the harshness of it as a delighted gasp fills the room. The cage sways as it is brought up to eye level, and as he blinks away the stars and comets dancing across his vision, Jaskier comes face to face with features worthy of any painter in the land.

The noblewoman practically seeps elegance from her pours, her skin clear of farmer’s work and her sea green eyes almost glowing with the little strain they have endured over the years. Her lips are ruby red, coloured delicately with a lip ointment which must have cost more than a tanner could earn in a lifetime, and, dangling from her ears, two sets of looped pears and amethyst sway with her excited movements, catching the day’s sun pouring in through the many windows.

Uncomfortable with such pinpointed attention, Jaskier inches backwards until he hits the other side of the cage with his back, his brow furrowed. The smile stretching her mouth is one of glee, satisfaction, like that of a spoiled child who just received the very thing she wanted from an overly indulgent father.

The room reflects this.

Jaskier was correct in his assumption that they were in some kind of guest-focused living room, the overabundance with the display of wealth is practically nauseating with its boldness. The walls are lined with heavy wallpaper, depicting lilies and roses and numerous other exhaustingly common romantic flowers. The floor is wooden, smothered in a rug that looks as if it likely originated in the skilled weaver workshops of Lyria, and the furniture is lined with embroidered stitching, made for viewing pleasure rather than practical sitting.

The trinkets, objects, and items, however, are the most noteworthy.

Grandiose bookcases carved with motifs circle the room, their shelves adorned with gleaming boxes, oddities, fossilised creatures ensnared in earth, the teeth of monsters and the feathers of birds long extinct. Goblets of all shapes and sizes catch the sun with in their patterned metal, their gemstones polished to the highest quality, and jars filled with brightly coloured liquid contain preserved specimens of things Jaskier doesn’t even _want_ to speculate the origin of, frozen in death with snarling lips and sightless eyes.

With a delighted clap of her hands, the noblewoman beams, her attention drifting to Tomas holding the cage. The motion sends a waft of perfume in his direction, thick and reminding Jaskier of the type his Mother used before she turned nasty.

“Yes, yes! I’ll take it at once!”

“It’s a deal?” The woman asks hopefully. “Instead of-”

“You no longer owe me rent.” The noblewoman agrees briskly, already reaching for the cage. “Though I expect it to be paid in full when the next season’s is due.”

“Of course.” Tomas nods, handing over the cage. The noblewoman accepts it eagerly, holding it up to gaze adoringly at Jaskier. After a moment, Tomas adds, “I wouldn’t take it out. It scurries quick-like, if you let it.”

Humming without paying a huge amount of attention, the noblewoman turns with a dismissive, “You can go.”

Without so much as a glance back, Tomas and the woman, and Jaskier really wishes he learned her name, leave hand-in-hand, vanishing out a door which gets closed by a lingering servant out in the corridor.

Setting the cage down onto a low table designed for silver trays to serve light sugary delights to visitors, the noblewoman gathers her rich red and blue dress and kneels on the rug, drinking the sight of him in.

“A pixie…” She breathes, before tilting her head with less pleasure. “Aw, you are all bruised up. Do not worry, you are in safe hands here, my little darling. I will feed you up on wine and bread, just as I did with my parrot, and you will feel as happy as he did in no time!”

Licking his lips, Jaskier clears his throat. “My…My Lady-”

“Oh, you speak!”

“Yes, I do.” Shuffling a little closer, he forces his head up tall, forcing his eyes to steadily meet her gaze. He bows grandly. “My Lady, oh darling of the many jewels, I’m afraid I am no pixie, but rather a man cursed into this small and tiny form.”

The noblewoman says nothing to this, and has no facial reaction other than the slight, almost amused minute tug of her lips. The movement is so small Jaskier can’t be wholly convinced it was really there.

He continues. “My name is Jaskier, and once I was as tall as any other man, however my luck was turned on me, spun around so I had the unpleasant misfortune of accidentally drinking something that was instead intended for someone else.”

It is probably best to keep Geralt out of this, for the moment. There is no telling how far away they are from Oxenfurt, and if the news has spread among the local posh-bloods that a Witcher slaughtered the son of one of the Academy’s patrons then none of them will likely be favourable to the hired monster slayers anytime soon.

“The results, as you can see, have left he alone and lost.” Gesturing down himself, Jaskier’s voice carries the tune of epic tales, the kind of stories he sometimes weaves to leave grown women weeping and men blinking away misty eyes as he wanders through a tavern, his audience captured on every word. “Only mere hours ago, I was washing up on the golden beaches of your shores, defenceless to hungry gulls who watched me with stunning black eyes. It must be Destiny, my sweet rose, who brought me to such fine, educated company, where I’m sure a sympathetic ear would be more than willing to aid me in my pitiful plight.”

Adjusting on her legs, the woman leans closer, until her nose near touches the side of the cage. She giggles. “My old nanny was not useful for much, however she would tell me the most thrilling tales of fairies and folk, _and_ of your kind. I know all about the tall lies you speak, and the deception within.”

“My Lady.” Rushing forward, Jaskier clasps at the metal bars of the cage. “I tell no lie! I am but a humble bard who-”

“Oh? Do you sing?”

“I do, but-”

“Please sing for me!”

“I-”

“Now, now.” Tapping the cage, she makes it shake, just a little, but with an obvious undercurrent of threat. Jaskier jumps back with alarm. “Sing, otherwise I might just find no use for you and have you stuffed like my parrot.”

His shoulders sagging, any potential hope being nursed within his chest dashed like a rowing boat on shore rocks, Jaskier gulps, his mouth dry and his body suddenly unbearably numb.

“Ok.” He sighs. “Ok. I’ll sing.”

So, he does.

He sings the next day, as well, when she sets “her precious songbird” up in the library so he can hum tunes while she reads. He tries to tell her the truth again, to no avail.

He sings the day after that, during the evening’s supper when she fills the smallest thimble she can find with wine and pushes sweet grapes through the tight bars. Instead of how he came to be, Jaskier tries with stories of adventure and love, trying to jog her memory of the famed Witcher’s Bard while also skirting clumsily around the topic of Geralt. Success is not his friend.

He sings as she bathes, and no matter how much she teases, he keeps his back firmly towards her, his eyes locked on the far wall. He tells her that he studied in Oxenfurt, and she laughs.

He sings over breakfast a few times, getting rewarded with flaky pastries. His shoulder is healing, as are his other wounds, and she is pleased. He speaks of the time a “friend” was hurt, and he had to help tend their injuries. She assumes he means other pixies and cannot be convinced otherwise.

He sings her to sleep. He doesn’t try to talk to her then.

He sings as the weeks start the drift along, and her interest in him dims. He foregoes elaborate stories now, focusing on the one thing she has use of him for.

He keeps on singing when she tells him again that it is fine to look at her while she is soaking in the warm tubs of water. Without stopping, he shuffles around, just to keep himself relevant.

He sings less when his cage gets hung up from the ceiling in her study, reserving his voice for whenever she is there to hear it. Steadily, it is the servants more than the noblewoman who tends to him.

He sings, sometimes, at night as the days drag on, just to feel less lonely.

He sings with excitement when his cage is brought out as entertainment for some visiting potential-husband stock and a gaggle of other noblewomen. They coo at him, and poke, and prod, and applaud when he finishes. The study is cold when he is sent back after an hour, for the fireplace was not lit.

She snaps at him halfway through scribing a letter, and Jaskier clacks his mouth shut with enough force to make his teeth rattle and makes no other noise in her company.

The servants don’t even goggle at him anymore.

His hair grows longer, his only hint, along with the rise and fall of the sun behind the glass of the window, of the passage of time.

He remains clean-shaven. Apparently, she insists upon that.

During the long stretches where the study is inhabited only by him and the occasional mouse scurrying across the carpet in search of crumbs, Jaskier quietly wonders what Geralt is doing, out there with Roach freely roaming the Continent. He hopes they both healed.

Sometimes, he sleeps through the entire day. He barely notices.

Jaskier remains silent.

Jaskier remains alone.

Then Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg walks into the study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: There’s a line where the sky meets the sea and it calls me~ And no one knooows~~ How far it goooooes~~~
> 
> So, oddly, I didn’t set out for this story to really beat on poor Jaskier, however I also had the aim of writing ‘crack taken seriously’ and came to the realisation that the Continent is very dangerous, Jaskier is very small, and just about everything either wants to kill him, eat him, or lock him up in a zoo. Sorry, bard!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier’s heart flies into his throat so damn fast he all but chokes on it.

Modelling a tailor-made dress of black material, dark fur, and gold embroidery, Yennefer is oblivious to his presence as she quickly glides purple eyes over several of the large paintings on the study wall, her lips, today unpainted and delicately bare, twitching with judgement as she takes in the lavish portraits of past family members and their prized stallions, lapdogs, and emerald encrusted jewellery. There is a quip building on her tongue, Jaskier can tell even from the other side of the room, however she keeps her observations to herself, holding her hands carefully at her front in a mirage of decorum.

For a moment it is all he can do to stare, awkwardly half-strewn on his side from where he had been numbly preparing himself for another full day of utter monotony, his brain doing several looping motions within his skull in a feeble attempt to catch up to what his eyes are seeing. 

Yennefer sighs, her pear earrings swinging.

Outside, despite the warmth of the sun beaming onto the ornate garden, a tree sways in a building wind, the sound muffled to near silence by the windowpane.

In the walls, the soft padding of mice clamber their way along, secret pickpockets waiting for their next thieving opportunity.

Then, just like that, the world snaps back into sharp, stark reality, and every grain of hope that has ever trickled through Jaskier’s body soars.

Yennefer.

Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg.

Geralt’s not-quite-girlfriend-but-a-bit-more-than-a-fling.

The very woman who they should have gone to in the first place, who would have laughed at him, teased him, yet ultimately turned him back to normal. The woman who was trained and released from Aretuza like a panther freed from its cage, deadly and quick and utterly, utterly beautiful.

One of the most terrifying women he has ever seen grace the Continent.

Despite the odds, despite the vast quantities of likelihood pouring out in the opposite direction, despite Jaskier seeming to have stepped on every cracks on the path, passed beneath every ladder, and crossed every single black cat known to man, she is here.

Yennefer is _here._

His body feels numb as he scrambles to his feet, stiff from days of inactivity and wobbly from the sudden burst of exhilarating adrenaline, making his stagger to the bars of the cage with less grace than a new-born colt. The quality of his walk is, however, the last thing on Jaskier’s mind, his hands gripping around the metal so tight it leaves reddened marks against the skin of his palms.

Eyes wide, he watches with bated breath as Yennefer saunters towards the desk, the noblewoman following after a hushed word with a nearby servant, ordering them to bring tea in their best cups. Together, they sit, Yennefer perching on a delicate oak chair as if she has always belonged there, while the noblewoman takes her place behind her desk.

They make an oddly striking pair, and if Jaskier were an artist of paint and pencil his fingers would be twitching for his craft tools.

A part of him wants to shout out and gain her attention, to plead for the Witch to whisk him away. This is practically a gift on a silver platter, an opportunity grant by the Gods to give him a chance of escape. He can’t let it to go to waste by simply gawping uselessly like a young buck greeting a prostitute for the first time.

Against the roof of his mouth, his tongue is as dry as dust, his palms sweating grossly against the cage bars.

“You have a wonderful home, my Lady.” Yennefer starts, adhering to the usual sickly admiration people in the courts tend to expect. A piece of her hair tumbles over her shoulder, and she tucks it back into place.

“Please, I believe someone of your calibre at least deserves to address me with equal measure. Call me Marguerite.” The noblewoman smiles, delicately folding her hands on the desk. One of her amethyst rings catches the sun streaming through the window, streaking a sharp point of light across the room.

Yennefer smiles primly. “Marguerite it is. I have to say, some of the items in your home pique my curiosity. Tell me, how does someone gather such a collection?”

Without realising, Jaskier’s teeth start to nibble away at his lower lip, pinching the skin. It's hard to keep his breath from picking up, forcing it slow so he can hear the conversation fully.

Part of him longs to call out to the Witch and beg for his freedom, however the other part, the logical part that sounds oddly like Geralt when he orders Jaskier to stay at their camp or sit beside a rather dull rock, tells him that he needs to wait.

Yennefer will help him, of that much he is certain, even if it is only to gain more favour with Geralt and have a giggle at his expense. The real challenge comes in the form of Marguerite.

Quietly, in the back of his head, Jaskier knows he shouldn’t take offence to the fact that she never gave him her name. To her, he is no more than a thing to own, a pet to kept in its crate, and people of any calibre hardly go around introducing themselves to their dogs and cats.

Apart from Geralt. The things that man occasionally blurts to his horse astounds Jaskier sometimes.

He tries not to dwell on it.

At the moment, there's no way he could catch her attention without causing a scene. For all she has lost interest in him, Marguerite will be as unwilling to part with her ‘pixie’, not, at least, until she has had the chance to show him off to all her friends and acquaintances. He still has use as a novelty item, something to parade around, and while she may currently be exchanging pleasantries with Yennefer, she will not be emendable to simply giving him up because the Mage asked nicely.

If Yennefer even does that much. She might just decide to strut up and grab him.

Sliding down to his knees, Jaskier settles on the hard metal, twisting a loose thread of his cloak around and around until it pulls tight, briefly cutting off the circulation to the tip of his finger. Patience is a virtue which has never really graced him, the lure of setting out and seizing every opportunity with both hands having become deeply rooted since his bedroom getaway back in Lettenhove.

He can’t rush into this, he must take his time, choose his moment wisely.

Maybe Geralt is rubbing off on him after all.

“Parts of it were my Father’s.” Marguerite hums, clearly proud to have achieved Yennefer’s interest. “The carpets, and the textiles. He had to travel the Continent for work, but he would always bring something back, a momentum of his time away. I do not traverse the world as he did, but I follow in his footsteps, nonetheless.”

“It’s impressive.”

“Thank you, though I believe that is not the reason why you are here. The fields?”

Yennefer nods. “I believe you shall find the soil suitably fertilised come the next rain. It will need maintenance, you cannot farm it to death, however, the crops will grow more plentiful than they have the last number of years.”

“Perfect.” Marguerite beams, clasping her hands together in a soft clap.

“Now, there is just the matter of payment.”

“Of course.” Untucking her chair slightly, Marguerite reaches beneath the desk and pulls out a draw, taking out a small red leather pouch. The coins clink together as she hands it over to Yennefer, weighted lowly by the vast amount inside. “It is all accounted for, I made sure of it myself.”

Smiling again, though it fails to reach her eyes, Yennefer says plainly, “A pleasure doing business with you-”

An almighty crash cuts her off, making them all jump and Marguerite yelp loudly, her hand shooting to her heart. Beyond the closed door, the metallic clatter of a tray bouncing on the solid wooden floor rattles harshly off the walls, the smashing of china cups accompanying it like the clashing of cymbals from a beat of a tambourine drum.

“That good for nothing…” Marguerite mutters, standing promptly. “One moment, please.”

“Take you time.”

Hurrying out, Marguerite shuts the study door firmly behind her, and not moments later the sound of her plummy voice viciously scolding some poor servant fills the corridor. With a huff, Yennefer slouches back into the chair, tucking the money pouch among the folds of her dress.

Jaskier glances at the door.

Then at Yennefer.

Then at the door again.

He gulps, licking his lips. Nerves, an unusual sensation given his line of work, wiggle their way through his stomach, jittery as he rouses up his courage and slides on a true showman’s expression.

No matter what anyone else says, at the end of the day he’s a performer, and what are performers if that can’t put on a good act?

“Yennefer.” He hisses, shifting on his knees. _"Yennefer."_

With a mildly confused noise in the back of her throat, Yennefer twists in her seat, striking purple eyes trailing over the room. When she fails to spot him, a light frown furrows her brows.

Standing, Jaskier knocks his knuckles against the metal bars, making them sing as he says again, louder, “Yennefer!”

Finally, their gazes meet, wide and imploring latching onto lightly bewildered.

For a long, still moment, neither of them moves, breathes, speaks, simply staring as if it were a vast ocean between them.

Jaskier heart hammers, beating senselessly within his ears, but whether it’s from fear, excitement, elation, or relief, he has no sodding clue.

Then, a toothy, cat-like grin slides up Yennefer’s face.

“Oh, _what_ is _this?”_ She asks with no intention of allowing an answer, gracefully getting to her feet, strolling towards him. 

The cage has been hung at a height just under her head, meaning she has to duck slightly to peer in. A brush of air waves against him from her movement, and with it the typical intoxicating scents she dabs across her skin, slipping against his nose. If it were not for the fact that the Mage might just be his only saving grace, Jaskier would comment on its vileness while pulling an exaggerated, nauseated face, even if he actually quite likes it.

Yennefer has taste, as loathe as he is to admit it.

That doesn’t mean he is going to go bloating her ego further, though.

She traces him up and down, commenting, like a child who just found an unattended chocolate cake, “You’ve got to tell me how you’ve managed to do this to yourself, _little bard.”_

“Yennefer,” He huffs, making a point of levelling her with a look, “Not now.”

“Is Geralt here?” She turns, as if expecting the Witcher to materialise out of thin air.

“No, we were separated in Oxenfurt.”

Curious, she glances at him. “Is that all the fuss is about? The people around here have been talking. Some kind of scuffle involving a hideous beast and some unfortunate guards.”

He shrugs. “Could be, but I’ve been stuck in here for weeks, so…”

“And your fine Witcher didn’t see fit to rescue you?”

“Pretty sure he thinks I’m dead, actually.” Jaskier tells her truthfully, and Yennefer blinks at that. “He was injured, as well, so he probably just went off somewhere to lick his wounds.”

A bit of the joy dims in her eyes at that, the gleeful smile losing its delighted edge. Yennefer hides it well, appearing unbothered by this new information as she clicks her tongue in thought, however Jaskier can see the wheels turning, probably doing some quick maths to count the days between Oxenfurt’s Witcher disaster and now.

“There was word of a Witcher heading south.” She states after a moment. “Moving around the edge of Brokilon and through Brugge. One of the villages on the main road has a particularly good potion shop. If he was injured, he’s probably planning on restocking there.”

It takes Jaskier a second to realise the implication of her words.

“I…You’ll take me?”

She scoffs. “Would you rather remain here? I’m sure Marguerite is a _very attentive_ host.”

“Nope, no, would very much like to leave now, thank you.” Licking on his lips, Jaskier tries tentatively, “Have I ever mentioned that you’re my favourite Mage?”

Snorting, Yennefer mutters something old and fancy-sounding beneath her breath, and a second later the small door clicks open, swinging widely. Without an ounce of hesitation, Jaskier scurries over, tentatively stepping down onto her open palm, which she holds out in silent invitation, and quickly resting on his knees.

“I suppose,” Yennefer muses aloud with a put-upon sigh, “You’ll also be asking me to turn you back to normal, as well.”

He fidgets. “Can you?”

“With the right equipment, and time. I do expect my fair share of payment, though. I’m not a charity.”

“And I’m sure you blight all those who think you are.”

“Naturally.” A swell of magic rings through the air, and the strange, glassy effect of a portal opens up before them, just in front of the desk. A wind travels with it, enough to make Jaskier cling to one of Yennefer’s fingers. She allows it without complaint, commenting offhandedly, “I would hate to have to turn you into something slimy.”

It’s a joke, he knows it is, however emotional exhaustion has taken its toll on him, these last few weeks, and when Yennefer peers down at him from the corner of her eye, purple irises sparkling, he can’t help but gulp.

****

*****

Jaskier is nervous.

Slowly he paces up and down the length of the table, his hands fiddling together behind his back, picking at his skin and twisting together. The room is quiet, interrupted only by his soft huffs of impatience, the crackle of the burning logs tossed in the fireplace, and the usual, rowdy crowd in the tavern below, the evening gradually settling into its full night-time swing.

Out the window, the sky is gently darkening, the sun slipping off below the horizon and sucking down every splash of orange and purple and pink along with it, allowing the inky blues and deep set blacks to spill and overflow among the clouds. The village, located just ahead of where they predict Geralt to be on his path, is a small, close knit place, surrounded by the type of dense woodland that produces trees which seem endless in their height. These trees currently sway in the winds blowing through this part of the Continent, their silhouettes dancing against the constantly fading light.

He paces.

Yennefer left him a little while ago, heading off for the tavern to wait for Geralt’s arrival. While a part of him wanted to join her, Jaskier has seen enough inn cats and rodents to know they stalk buildings like these, and while the thought of being alone and vulnerable worries him greatly, he also can’t deny that going downstairs would likely end with him either being dropped, stepped on, or somehow squished into a sorry pulp. 

There have been too many near-misses throughout this whole ordeal, Jaskier is not going to push his luck now there’s a possible end in sight.

So, instead of peeking out at the excitement of the bar, at the musician he can faintly hear playing a flute and the bawling laughter of men he presumes to be farmhands finding pleasure in alcohol after a long, hard day, Jaskier remains upstairs, in an inn room which is, quite frankly, the most luxurious he has ever come across on the road.

On any normal day, he would be lapping the delights up, taking full use of everything on offer. However, to be frank, when this is all said and done and he’s back to normal, Jaskier is going to snatch Geralt by the ear, drag him out into the woods, and promptly roll in the biggest pile of dirt he can find.

He needs the familiar warmth of the campfire again, the soft sounds of Geralt cleaning his swords or checking over the potions in his bag. He needs the blandly roasted rabbits stuck on a makeshift spit over the flames, and the gentle nickering of Roach as she munches on grass or dozes standing up.

Geralt will probably think he is a bloody doppler.

 _The Skybound Pony_ , an inn which surely has a tale behind the name, is the kind of establishment Jaskier wouldn’t even glance at if he were travelling with the Witcher. It’s too clean, too expensive, with the kind of people who take one look at a Geralt and send them both packing with a kick up their arses. 

Before Jaskier firmly wedged himself into Geralt’s life like a flea in the hair of an armpit, he would have fancied such a place to lunge the evening away, taking his sweet time to enjoy the bathtub and spreading out over the fine material of the bedding as if a cat in a sunspot. When he first turned his curious attention to Geralt, occasionally he would nag for them to get a room for the night, siting the precious delights as something worth their while.

The lesson he learned was quick, and Jaskier rapidly dropped the subject altogether. 

People distrust Witchers, useful or otherwise, and no amount of songs were ever going to change everyone’s minds, especially those running businesses with higher reputations. This wasn’t helped by the fact that years of hatred have left Geralt weary of approaching such buildings and the folks within them, which typically turns him grouchy and standoffish, and the idea of potentially raising his hopes only to have them dashed not five minutes later leaves a sour, unpalatable taste in Jaskier’s mouth.

So, for as much as he complains about his bad back from the hard ground, the lack of facilities, the bugs that tangle in his hair while he sleeps and the nonexistence of any kind of privacy, Jaskier much prefers sleeping beneath the clouds and the stars than dealing with the sly remarks and cruel judgements any day of the week.

Anyway, they rarely have the coin to afford it.

Yennefer, on the other hand, has no such trouble.

Mages are not Witchers, and their position in courts grant them all kinds of ungodly levels of respect. It’s downright frustrating, considering Jaskier has seen more Mages bring harm upon people than mere Witchers, a group whose numbers are slowly dwindling year upon year and whose keeps are turning into nothing more than sorry piles of rubble. The Continent is filled with tales of Witches and Wizards taking over towns, enslaving and experimenting on poor, unsuspecting souls, unleashing inhuman beasts and running outside the usual laws to practice magics strictly forbidden. There’s probably not a person alive who has not heard of Stregobor’s ghastly towers and the dark things whispered inside those stone walls.

Yet, the divide remains, Geralt shunned while Yennefer waltzes.

When they arrived, stepping out of the portal into the fresh, sweet air that Jaskier had longed for during his spell shut away in that terrible cage, she had barely even taken a second to check her hair before entering the inn, striding through the door as if she owned the place. The innkeeper’s wife, a woman who wore her hair up in a hellishly tight bun and with a face that spoke of taking no nonsense from her patrons, had held out a key and nodded in greeting at the Witch, leaving it at that.

Jaskier can only assume this is their best room.

On the windowsill, a vase of newly picked buttercups brightened the space, framed by curtains of silky red. The bed is of the four-poster variety, something Jaskier has not seen since he left Lettenhove (excluding the odd invitation to spend the evening with a handsome partner), with drapes embroidered with stitching that seemed to glow in the firelight. A rug on the floor offers bare feet protection from the chilled floorboards, and the table, when they arrived, was completed with a basket filled with, honest to the Gods, _freshly baked bread._

A small part of Jaskier nearly offered his services up to Yennefer then and there, if this is how she regularly lives.

When asked how she managed to end up with such an arrangement, the Mage waved him off with a breezy, “I gave them a few spells, it really wasn’t much.” 

Of course, she wouldn’t disclose _what_ spells, no matter how many times he pressed, however considering how prosperous this seemingly random little place is, he might have an idea.

After that, they quickly fell into talking, Yennefer squeezing out every detail she could on his current condition and how it happened. There was really not much for Jaskier to offer, considering he had downed the fated drink in one, failed to taste anything out of the ordinary, and passed out for the fun part. Despite not being the victim, Geralt really is more likely to know what the hell happened, but for Jaskier it’s nothing but a half-remembered blur.

Yennefer tutted at him. “This is for your own sake, bard. I suggest you play along unless you fancy being one inch tall for the rest of your life.”

He is not one inch tall, _thank you very much_. Jaskier might be tiny, but he does have a bit of superiority over a meagre ant, or an irate beetle.

His irritation goes unvoiced, fizzling out from the sheer amount of tiredness battling him. For all he was laying around not doing much, Marguerite’s was exhausting, mentally, emotionally, whatever, and in truth all he fancied at that very moment was a soft corner hidden in the dark where he could curl up and pretend everything for normal for a few hours.

Naturally, Jaskier did not get this, and at Yennefer unimpressed eyebrow raising up at him, sighed out a worn, “I’m not a Witch, _Witch_. I can’t see into the future and know not to drink something. It wasn't like there was a giant label telling me to _avoid at all costs._ ”

He was crossed legged, his hands absently tearing off small chunks of bread from a roll she had split in half for him, methodically eating and generally avoiding her gaze. Yennefer wasn’t towering over him, not in the same way Marguerite or Tomas had, seated instead at the other end of the table, however her presence has always been somewhat uncomfortable for Jaskier (thanks, he is sure, to their rather disastrous first meeting), and sometimes being the sole focus of her attention made him feel the very size he currently is.

There is probably some poetic metaphor or simile in that, he had thought to himself as he chewed another mouthful of bread, but he was too knackered to work it out. His voice was also a bit rawer than he first realised, not enjoying talking so much after who knows how long left in silence.

With a shrug, he continued, “It was piss-poor ale in a forgettable inn, that is all I can really say.”

Eventually, she let it go, offhandedly commenting that she will get the important details from Geralt.

“I imagine he won’t be here for a while, if Roach was injured as you said.” Yennefer mused, standing gracefully. “At least not for a couple of hours. I’m going to bathe. Stay on the table. If I find you watching, I’ll turn you into a mole and have Geralt eat you for dinner.”

Exhaustion has never been a pretty look on Jaskier.

Aside from the obvious, the dark circles under his eyes, the fragile shakiness in his bones, the way his brain seemed incapable of simply staying awake, there’s also the emotional side to weariness as well, the part which sets all kinds of gates open within the mind and breaks down the filters normally kept tightly in place.

It’s usually when he feels most like his parents.

He hates it.

He also can’t really control it. Things just slip out or irritate his anger like a wasp in a jar, buzzing and buzzing and buzzing until eventually the glass topples over or falls from the table to smash against the floor. Jaskier’s patience has never been the best of things, again, much like his Father, but it can withstand a bit of battering. 

Give it the right set of circumstances, though, a bit of prodding in the wrong direction or an unintentional remark, and that suddenly snaps down to the length of a fly’s wing, easily crushed beneath a heavy weight and squished without contemplation.

Once, when he was a child still trying to understand the shifting tones of his parents and the promise of siblings that never seemed to come, Jaskier spent the entire night awake, scared stiff by the clashing of a thunderstorm raging beyond his window. 

Luckily, he had enough common sense to stay put in his room, daring not to run off to his Mother and Father and invoke their misguided wrath, however the next day he was sluggish and slow, constantly dropping things and fumbling with his quill. He would trip on invisible objects and slur his words worse than any drunkard. 

His tutor had been less than impressed, settling into a thirty-minute lecture on responsibilities, expectations, the role he had to play as a nobleman and all the different graces he had to carry with him at any given time. The man had complained about his schoolwork, his spelling, his daydreaming in lessons and the endless humming beneath his breath. There had been remarks on his appearance, the way he always had dirt beneath his nails and a scrape or two somewhere on his person, be it his arms, his hands, or his face.

Throughout it all, Jaskier had stood still, taking blow after blow on his person, his very character, with a set jaw and piercing eyes.

Then he lobbed his inkpot right at his tutor’s fat head.

The punishment was harsh, and seemed to last forever, but the expression of utter shock was so completely worth it that Jaskier found himself hard pressed to feel remorseful over the act.

It has been years since that altercation, and Jaskier has had every opportunity to grow and learn how to hold such impulses back, but, as Yennefer begins to faff with buttons and move in the direction of the screen hiding away the bathtub, this same, testy exhaustion perks up, drowning out the part of his brain reminding him that making snide remarks at the woman he’s relying upon is a very bad, _not at all good_ idea.

“Dear Yennefer,” He said, sickly sweet and shoved full of hostility, “After so many bodies, I’m afraid they all look the same. I doubt there would be anything of note _to_ see.”

Jaskier regretted it almost instantly, turning away from the glare she shoots at him, her eyes sinking into something closed off and walled. To her credit, Yennefer did not strike back, turning on her heel and disappearing behind the screen.

He sat on the table, the bread abandoned, stewing in his sullen, drained brooding. Soft splashing filled the room, but there was no longer any effort to talk, just the dull silence of an unhappy atmosphere.

None of this was Yennefer’s fault, not really. He’s tired, caught in the wrong mood, and all she was trying to do was gather information so she can make the best judgement later on. It is in her nature to make sly and judgmental comments, it’s how their dynamic has always worked, and while they most certainly will never be friends braiding each other’s hair, over the years this hostility has eased somewhat into dagger-like jibes. They are still sharp at times, still enough to hurt, at times, yet they strike and are done with it, no longer chopping off entire arms or legs or heads with their cutting remarks and leaving them to bleed out slowly.

Her relationship with Geralt complicates things, that much is for certain, however his own bundle of confused feelings surrounding that mess of an affair is really more of a _him_ problem than Yennefer’s.

Fuck, he felt like a bully.

He doesn’t want to feel like a bully.

There had been no build-up to his sudden disdain, nothing she said which should have really riled him. Yennefer knows his buttons by now, knows exactly what to mention to get a reaction out of him. He had switched the tone on her, catching her off-guard by his sudden hostility.

An apology started up his throat, but quickly died, a strange sense of embarrassed guilt swirling in his gut. He shifts, licking his tongue over his lips, the bread long forgotten.

In the end, Jaskier pathetically remained quiet, sullenly folding up his cloak into a makeshift pillow and flopping down for a much-needed nap.

Not long later, Yennefer headed off for the tavern below, only offering a brief and unnecessary, “Don’t leave the room.”

From where he lay sprawled, uncomfortable on the hard wood, Jaskier sighed at her retreat, staring blankly up at the ceiling and muttering softly beneath his breath, “Since when did you become such a brat?”

There was no answer, and with another drawn exhale he climbed to his feet.

Now, he paces, listening, waiting, trying to pick up on the moment a Witcher enters the tavern and causes every ounce of good cheer downstairs to dim. 

Doubts skip about in his mind, the likelihood of Geralt being on this path, the possibility that he decided to head elsewhere, the very real threat that someone sought out his services, dragging him miles off course to go slay the terrible beast terrorising some backwards town.

Jaskier also, quietly, wonders if Geralt still has his lute.

He misses his lute.

It hits him, then, how long it has been since he last played, plucking at the strings, releasing darling melodies into the world. In a way, it is very much like a sudden, unwelcoming withdrawal he’s only now truly noticing, settling an itch beneath his skin he cannot scratch. Entertaining others is Jaskier’s bread and butter, the thing that saw him abandon his position in court and turn his back on his family. It is the fire in his blood, the adrenaline in his veins, and without it, all that hard work and sacrifice feels as if wasted time not worth the reward.

He has to keep playing, reaffirming to himself that he is, in fact, _meant_ to do this, that this is what he was born to do, otherwise the sneaking thoughts that sometimes spill into his mind to be worried over become a choir of unshakable voices, scolding him for every fleeting dream and fancy he ever decided to follow.

His poor lute has probably not seen air since this whole unfortunate situation began, packed away in its case. Briefly, Jaskier mulls over whether Geralt would have taken it out, then swiftly banishes the idea away.

For all that he cares and gets involved in other people’s nonsense, Geralt is still, at heart, a Witcher, and becoming sentimental about things was probably beaten out of him at a young age. They are practical creatures, and while Geralt may carry the odd trinket or two around with him to remember people and places (a certain brooch comes to mind), a lute is another thing entirely, taking up space on Roach’s back and adding to the weight she has to carry. 

Maybe he took one of Jaskier’s perfume bottles instead, or his songbook, selling off the instrument once he was a good distance away from Oxenfurt and the whispers sprouting there.

With luck and the right buyer, he should have received a good price for it, at least enough for a good poultice for his bad leg, or treatment for Roach.

Jaskier can only hope that once he’s back to normal, he’ll be able to buy himself a new one. None will ever be as lovely as his Elven gift, he knows that within the marrow of his bones, however there are craftsmen and artists all over the Continent who recognise his face. Maybe if he promises a few performances and sends trade their way, he’ll be able to get another for a discounted price.

It will be nice, to sing for his own enjoyment again.

Jaskier continues to pace.

How much longer until Geralt gets here?

That probably depends on where the Witcher was this morning, and how far he is willing to travel with a mare still recovering from injury. For as much as he may deny it, Geralt dotes on that horse like there is no tomorrow, talking to her and buying soft tack, brushing her down at any given moment to keep the grime and nasties away.

Because of Jaskier, she ended up hurt, so there’s no way Geralt is going to be pushing her for a while. He will probably let things heal at their own pace, avoiding taking any jobs further than a mile away from wherever he camps, only going for those he can easily walk to himself while leaving Roach to rest.

Typically, in Jaskier’s experience, when he doesn’t have to be extra careful with his mare, Geralt tends to prefer a steady pace when crossing between lands. Occasionally he will cover multiple miles in as little as half an hour given the right motivator, and more if he is willing to push Roach.

This is all well and good for someone on horseback, they get the luxury of sitting down throughout it all, but for someone _who isn’t allowed to touch Roach_ and only has their two feet to rely on?

These slogs are among the worst of their travels together, and Jaskier is always dead on his feet afterwards.

Still, he can't say that the reasonings for such marches aren’t understandable, and even if Geralt never tells him explicitly, Jaskier has learned over the years how to read his muted expressions well enough to tell when something has worried, concerned, or panicked him.

The young children vanishing without a trace a few towns over, the sudden, unpredictable fires threatening to smother fields and barns and homesteads, the time when they heard about rather than saw a forming mob preparing to meet Geralt as they made their way down the road, swiftly spinning on their heels and retreating back the way they came.

Geralt remained silent in their unanimous decision to turn back, however the small glances he shot in Jaskier’s direction did not go unnoticed.

There’s no such motivation for Geralt now, apart from the need to put distance between himself and Oxenfurt. Yennefer mentioned that he would have paid a visit to a well-known healer in this direction, however that seems to be the beginning and end of Geralt’s plans, and he has fallen back into his usual meanderings up and down roads until work comes along.

Roach was not the only one hurt, after all.

Which all means that his pace is truly going to be slow. Would they even get here for tonight? It could take longer, much longer, if their wounds need more than some lopsided stitching and a good night’s rest. How long would Yennefer be willing to keep the room, or Jaskier for that matter? He’s hardly put himself into her good books. If this goes on longer than a day, she could very easily drop him out a window guilt-free and call it a day.

Downstairs, the tavern goes quiet.

Jaskier stills.

The fire, as if understanding his urgency to listen, cracks noisily, sparking a small rush of flames that sing in tune with his pulse and heart, muffling the faint sounds below in an act of true betrayal. Jaskier’s hands fist, curling tight and then releasing, flexing his fingers as he struggles to hear, trying almost desperately to pick up on the faint voices.

Footsteps start up the stairs, two pairs, if he is right. One set is lighter than the other, more nimble and quick-footed. The second pair is heavy, weighted down as if the entire Continent rested on their shoulders.

Jaskier blinks, and then gulps.

“Fuck.”

It strikes him then, as he listens to what can only be Yennefer and Geralt approaching, that he doesn’t have a sodding clue how to go about this.

_Surprise! I’m not dead! Terribly sorry about the confusion._

Geralt would probably punch him.

Should he…Pose? Is that a thing he should be doing? Perhaps he could lean against something, pretend to be lost in thought and oh so conveniently caught off-guard when the door suddenly opens. _Geralt, you’re here, what a coincidence!_

Maybe not.

Laying down on the table could work, pretending to be asleep or something. Jaskier is pretty good at feigning sleep, a skill he honed at Oxenfurt when he wanted an excuse to get out of awkward conversations with exes and tutors.

Jaskier starts towards his folded cloak, and then pauses, thinking it over again.

He might look dead. 

_More_ dead, in Geralt’s eyes, which would just make the whole _not dead_ thing all the more awkward. The last thing he needs to do is make Geralt feel even worse by sprawling out like a crumpled corpse left splattered on the table.

With increased panic, Jaskier glances around, eyeing up the looming breadbasket and the rolls still on offer. 

Could he sit by the bread? What about on the bread? Would bread ease the emotional blow? Is that something bread does? Does Geralt _like_ bread?

“Shit, shit, shit…”

Without much of a plan, Jaskier grabs his cloak and flings it around his shoulders, needlessly faffing with the button to secure it around his neck. There’s not really any reason to do this, but it helps him feel a bit less exposed, which is something, at least.

“Come on, Jaskier, come on, think…”

A part of him wishes the table were not so exposed, at least he might look a bit less out of place on the bed. Here he stands out like a sore thumb, as relaxed as a bloke perched on a cactus and as natural as a duck in a desert, an awkward little person with nothing to do other than hover about nervously and watch the door.

Jaskier startles badly when said door decides to open, rapidly losing all air within his lungs as Geralt’s voice, rough and haggard, cuts through with, “I’m not…I’m not really in the mood, Yen.”

“Good, neither am I.”

If someone could paint a picture of him right now, Jaskier is sure he looks like a dog whose constipation has just switched to diarrhoea.

Unsuspecting, innocent to whatever he is about to face, Geralt limps into the room, still favouring the same leg as before. “Then why-”

“Happen to lose something of yours, Geralt?” Yennefer interrupts, staying in the open doorway and crossing her arms.  
Frowning, Geralt’s lips pinch, his jaw setting tightly. “What-”

With great trepidation, Jaskier clears his throat, wincing when it breaks off with a rather high-pitched squeak.

The reaction is instantaneous, Geralt twisting on his heel to scan over the room with large eyes, locking onto Jaskier not a moment later. The room falls silent, and for a second Jaskier can’t tell if the Witcher is breathing, going so still that a statue could exhibit more signs on life.

Then, as soft as anything he has ever heard from the man, _“Jaskier?”_

“Hi.” He waves, and then regrets it, letting his hand drop beneath his cloak. “Um…”

“You’re…” Geralt’s face is impossibly wide, yet also unreadable, his lips moving even as his voice fades away into nothing. 

There’s a paleness to his skin, Jaskier notes, a gauntness that speaks of a type of poor self-care Geralt’s never exhibited before. His hair is knotted, tugged back hastily just to be kept out of his eyes, and his armour has patches of dirt which the Witcher would have never allowed to fester before, wedging deep into cracks and nooks. Even as he stands, Geralt holds most of his weight on one leg, the other lightly hovering above the ground.

Anyone else would never notice these little things, but Jaskier does, and he scowls at what he finds.

After a heavy swallow, Geralt manages an strange sounding, “You’re _alive_.”

“You thought you could get rid of me?” Jaskier raises an eyebrow, shoving a lightness to his voice he isn’t sure he has.  
Geralt’s face pinches.

What Jaskier is really waiting for is the yelling, the comments on his incompetence, the _I told you so’s_ and the _why didn’t you listen to me?_

Geralt was right, after all, they should have gone to Yennefer straight away, should have nipped this entire debacle in the bud as soon as it emerged from the branch. It was at _Jaskier’s_ insistence they went to Oxenfurt, seeking out Mages who didn’t exist, and _his_ tantrum that got them into a situation resulting in injury and a near-death that his mind will surely be reliving for the next number of months.

Geralt likes to say he suffers under Jaskier’s hand, both through his music and the exaggerations within them, but this is a nonsense argument and they both know it. Jaskier is changing things, slowly but surely, the attitude towards Witchers, the beliefs people have on them, the general understanding on what Witchers do and why. Music crosses any great divide humans enjoy setting up, and it is no coincidence that since a few select songs started drifting across the Continent that Geralt tends to get paid in full these days, or that places are more willing to let him stable his horse for a few nights.

This time, though, it’s different, and Geralt truly has suffered under Jaskier’s mistakes. He has every right to be angry, and the best thing Jaskier can do now is to take it on the chin and act like the adult he is.

He mentally braces. 

His joking comment should be enough to spur Geralt into what must be a building frustration, and truth be told, he would much rather get this over and done with sooner rather than later.

A beat passes.

Then two.

Hesitantly, he glances up, a churning sensation in his gut, and then blanks completely. 

Geralt’s face has _crumpled._

Not in the conventional sense, he is a Witcher and the idea of letting strong emotions show on the face is like trying to milk a goat with a vendetta against any human in a five-mile radius. Jaskier, however, has the benefit of having spent over a decade wandering the Continent with this man, and for all Geralt still keeps his secrets, such a length of time does fruit a few advantages.

The small tightening of his brows is the first giveaway, the way they ever so slightly tilt upwards into something that screams _I’m not ok_. Next is the subtle movements of his mouth, indicating teeth clenching to avoid perhaps a quiver to the lips, a shakiness of the bottom jaw, or maybe more words which would reveal whatever is going on inside that complex skull. Finally, and the most hidden of all, it is the way his features minutely collapse, as if gravity has increased and no one has bothered to tell him, giving Geralt’s features a sadder, hurt appearance.

To anyone else, this would be invisible, unnoteworthy, barely worth a second glance.

Jaskier’s mouth goes as dry as a desert.

He would kill for a nice red wine to wet it.

Before his brain has the chance to summon up a useful sentence or two to try and kickstart the conversation into actual conversational territory, Geralt starts forward, crossing to the table in three steps and dropping heavily to his knees. The apple of his throat bobs in a visible swallow, and Jaskier fights not to watch it.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt says, and Jaskier jolts.

“What?”

“That bridge. Where I lost you. I…” Geralt has never struggled so badly with his words in front of him before. It’s bewildering. “You were relying on me, and I-”

Jaskier cuts in with a wave of his hand. “Geralt, no. That isn’t…That wasn’t…None of that was your fault.”

He doesn’t receive a verbal response, but the expression is enough.

Geralt is rarely unsure on anything, and it’s even rarer for him to allow it to show on his face. The most folk tend to get is a dip in his brows, a grunt, sometimes a growl if need be, but nothing more than the absolute bare minimum. Yet now there’s confusion in his eyes, disbelief shining within them and something else entirely swimming at the back, protected by the dark waters clouding the view.

Jaskier struggles not to gape at the man whose only previous bouts of open body language include the time a wasp got stuck under his armour, when Roach managed to grab and pull his hair, and the day Geralt returned to a village after a job to find Jaskier half stuck in a well while drunk off his arse.

Jaskier was as confused as Geralt on that one. How he got there is anyone’s guess.

“I…” Geralt starts and then stops, licking his bottom lip and struggling to keep eye contact. His gaze drops to the floor beneath the table. “I should’ve done better. It’s my job to-”

“You were _outnumbered_.” Jaskier protests, and all his previous nervousness drops away as he steps forward. For the briefest of seconds, it seems like Geralt wants to reach up towards him, however that movement is very rapidly stopped. “You might be a Witcher, but that doesn’t mean you can take on _armies_.”

“Jaskier, I…”

There is so much goddamn _emotion_ swirling like a hurricane behind those amber eyes that Jaskier finds himself holding his breath, his chest floating with all kinds of fluttery feelings that make his heart stutter. He quickly has to gulp them down, reminding himself that he has read too much into Geralt’s minute expressions in the past, the results of which include Jaskier sullenly mopping up the dried blood from his face while his travel companion when romping with a Witch.

Whatever Geralt was planning on saying, he gives up on, closing his mouth and setting his jaw in such a way that Jaskier knows he will have better luck attempting to pluck feathers from a snake than wrestling words from his Witcher. On his lap, Geralt’s hands fist hard enough to make his leather gloves creak, and Jaskier feels his shoulders slump in response.

The walls have gone up, the drawbridge is raised high, and the moat is now filled with bubbling, boiling acid, just how Geralt likes it.

Sweet Melitele, this man.

With the options being to either stutter in the awkward silence or move the conversation along, Jaskier allows the issue to drop, asking instead, “How’s Roach? I know she was hurt.”

“Fine.” Geralt says, his voice completely neutral. Jaskier hates it. “Mostly healed, now. Maybe another week.”

Jaskier nods, unsatisfied. “And you? Don’t think I didn’t see that limp when you walked in.”

“I’m fine, Jaskier.”

“Oh, really? Is that why your hair hasn’t seen a comb in a month?” Falling back into his old spiel is far more comfortable than whatever subject they’re currently skirting around. Jaskier lets the humour take charge of the situation. “Honestly, Geralt, those tangles will take forever to comb out. How in the gods name did you manage to-”

“What about you?” Geralt interrupts, and suddenly that twist is back on his features, that strange stab of realisation that this stoic bull of a man cares about him, leaving Jaskier near speechless. Amber eyes scan him over sharply, lingering in places of previous hurts. “You fell _high_ , Jask. Did…Falling from that far up, you must’ve-”

“I don’t remember it.” Jaskier reassures quickly, trying not to stumble from the nickname which has materialised out of thin air. “Honestly Geralt, I don’t. I recall you being knocked, and me falling out the tankard, which is so a conversation we’re having later, by the way, but after that it’s just…” He wiggles his fingers near his head, “Blank.”

That does little to ease the rigidness of Geralt’s spine. “I searched for you. I thought you might wash up on the shore. I looked all around Oxenfurt.”

 _Then further down the coast_ , Jaskier knows, but he elects not to bring that up. It will do little good to mention how close their paths came to crossing, nor his failed attempt to catch Geralt’s attention.

The fluttery feeling returns with full force, and he pushes it down as he shrugs, “The currents in that area are pretty strong. We were warned enough times at university not to go swimming drunk and get swept out to sea. Of course, we took that less of a warning, more of a challenge.” He flashes what he hopes is a cheeky smirk. “And naturally, we told all the new students that skinny-dipping was a rite of passage.”

A mixture of dissatisfaction and mirth flickers across Geralt’s face, and, by some miracle, the mirth wins. “Of course you did.”

“You’re implying things with that tone, my dear Witcher, and I don’t know if I appreciate them.”

It might be the exhaustion, the relief, or the way he says it, but Geralt gets to his feet with huff of dear Gods _amusement_ , staring down at Jaskier with _fondness_. “I imply many things, bard, rarely do you listen.”

“Now that I do take offence to.”

“While this is all rather touching and incredibly sickly,” A voice cuts in, and they both startle at the sudden reminder than Yennefer is still very much here, watching, listening to everything being said. Geralt turns, revealing the Mage leaning against the doorway, arms still crossed. “We do actually need to get a move on if you want your precious bard returned to his normal size.”

“Yen, you could-”

Yennefer cuts Geralt off with a snort, standing up straight. “I need the finer details, and I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart, I want compensation, but yes, I do believe your bard can be returned to all his…” She trails off, making of show of glancing Jaskier up and down, “Usual, gaudy self.”

There’s a slight predatory glint in her gaze, one which makes Jaskier shrink back and gulp. His earlier comments ring mockingly through his skull, a not-so-pleasant reminder of which side of her temper he currently resides.

“But I can’t do any of that here.” Yennefer continues. “I have a safehouse not too far from here. I’ll portal us there, Roach included.” She adds when Geralt opens his mouth. He blinks, nods, and then closes it. Yennefer smiles with fake brightness. “Excellent. I’ll return the key to the innkeeper, you collect your pet. Both of them.”

Jaskier will either dead by the end of the week or a toad.

His money is on the toad.

With that terrifying statement, Yennefer flicks her hair and walks out, and Geralt slowly glances towards Jaskier, an eyebrow raised.

“How badly did you two bicker?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“ _Jask_.” Geralt chastises, though there’s humour in his eyes, and Jaskier is quite sure that if this nickname thing keeps up, there will be little left of him come winter, just a rather swoon-prone bundle of goop. “You shouldn’t rattle her. She is doing both of us a favour.”

Oh, Jaskier is so going to have his heart broken by this man. He can see it as clearly as any fortune teller. Geralt already has his chosen one, it will pay him well to remember that.

Still, as the Witcher holds out his palm expectantly, and Jaskier steps forward with every ounce of trust he can harbour in his tiny body, he grins up, and by the Gods it’s nice to feel like he belongs again.

“Are you calling me petty, Witcher? Surely you know me better than that.”

“Give me strength.” Geralt mutters, and Jaskier, for the first time in bloody ages, laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this would be the last chapter, but I realised that it would be another number of months yet until I was finished with this fic (writer's block sucks), and going so long without updating was making me frustrated. I imagine there's some spelling mistakes/grammar errors in this, but considering it takes me over an hour to read each chapter and I'm tired, I'm not all that fussed about fixing them tonight.
> 
> In case you're wondering, the reason why Jaskier's comment to Yennefer got to her so badly was because she gave up literally everything to have her current body, which Jaskier then goes and basically calls common and boring. It hits a bit too close to home for her.
> 
> Anyway, see you all in another, what, eight months or so? *Sobs quietly into the keyboard*
> 
> [Tumblr](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/)


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